The Return of Rico
by Grabbag Lapidary
Summary: (2012Movieverse. Inspired by the eponymous comic, as well as elements of the Stallone movie) Dredd & Anderson have been partners since Peach Trees, but a new assignment for the psi separates them. When a new crimelord appears in Mega City One, can Dredd and his new partner handle it, especially when the truth about the criminal is revealed? Will Anderson save the city and the day?
1. Aspen

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

I do not like the term "trigger warnings" - but I think as an author I have a responsibility to make sure people are aware of what is in this story. Obviously, this is a "Dredd" story based on the movie and that features crime, violence, drug use and death (this story will NOT feature serious real-world swearing, however). It is obvious a "Dredd" story will contain such things – please do not be surprised if you find them!

_Please note : this story is rated "M" for mature._ The reason is because there are some sexual themes and scenes in it; there is nothing explicit but it is a little more than a "T" rating, I think. The sexual themes and content is connected with the villains of the piece, and so is not pleasant or loving. It is violent and abusive in places. _Please_ be aware of and warned about this! I have not written this content to be titillating, _nor will I_ – so please don't request the story go in that direction.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**The Return of Rico**

**Chapter One : Aspen**

The prisoner lay on his back, his hands linked behind his head, staring at but not seeing the ceiling above his bed. His naked body – lean and well-muscled – was relaxed, his face slack, his mind far away.

Tomorrow, he went free – but that was not what occupied his thoughts. He did not look forward, but rather back, to the twenty years he had spent in this facility. Seven thousand three hundred and five days and nights in the Aspen Maximum Security Penitentiary. One-hundred-and-seventy-five thousand three-hundred-and-twenty hours surrounded by bars and walls and razor wire. Ten-million five-hundred-and-nineteen thousand two-hundred minutes being constantly watched and spied upon. Six-hundred-and-thirty-one million one-hundred-and-fifty-two thousand seconds of his life spent in the inverted-fortress dug deep into the mile-high mountains of the Rockies.

He'd spent longer inside these walls than outside them, toiling like a slave in the choking, cloying darkness of the silver mines, fitfully sleeping on lumpy mattresses or shivering beneath thin blankets, obsessively exercising in the prison gymnasium, screaming himself hoarse when the isolation and horror became too much. He knew, intellectually, that he existed on the very edge of madness, perhaps having already crossed over to the other side. He could fool the psychologists, the guards, even the warden – but not himself. He knew his time here had changed and broken him, mentally and spiritually if not physically. Pleasures no longer satiated him. What sustained him was his obsession, his all-consuming hatred of the man who had put him here.

His hands tightened behind his head and the muscles at the points of his heavy jaw popped, but he gave no other sign of anger. It had all been so stupid! There had been no need for the goody-two-shoes Judge to turn him in! There'd been room enough in Mega City One for the two of them, for their two approaches. Really, what had it mattered? Did he really begrudge him the comfort he'd made for himself on the side? That had to be it – a false, overweening asceticism was what had made him turn him in. A probably hypocritical martyr complex, a masochistic enjoyment of suffering. And jealousy – couldn't forget jealousy. He'd always been better, and he'd never let him forget it.

Perhaps that had been it – he'd pushed him too far. He'd always been stronger than him, always better, always better equipped to handle life. He'd been too hard on him, unfair to him. And that was why he'd reacted like he did, jealously sending him away so only he remained, taking his place as the best in the city now his only rival was gone.

The first few years had been hard – horribly so. Not physically – physical hardship had never troubled him, and he had never shied away from a confrontation. But the mental adjustment – from freedom and authority and comfort and wealth to restriction and control and suffering and poverty – had been agonizing. He found himself on the bottom rung of the ladder once again, those above him thinking he could push him about – and pushing back caused more problems than it solved. The other prisoners feared him, but did not respect him – the warden made sure of that as he had the guards systematically break him for each and every infraction.

He became cunning and patient – he had the intelligence and he certainly had the time. He tamped down his rage and anger, letting it smolder hot beneath the surface. He became a model prisoner, well-behaved and respectful, working his way towards positions of trust and petty privileges. He slowly built a reputation among his fellow inmates, doing favors for them, protecting the weaker ones and the newbies, standing up to those who stepped out of line, the voice of reason in the face of madness.

His life became easier, bearable certainly if not pleasant. He enjoyed comforts long denied to him – books, television, a cup of sythi-caf now and then. The guards considered him to be safe, institutionalized, no longer a threat. Only the warden did not trust him.

Not that it would have mattered if he did – there was no parole. Not from Aspen and not for a man like him. Not for his "crimes". Now his lips twitched, drawing back from his clenched teeth. Crimes! He'd done nothing more than many others! Nothing worse, certainly! It was perfectly understandable, expected even. It had simply been his bad luck to have drawn someone like him who had to do everything by the book and turn him in.

Still he waited patiently, working behind the scenes to put the pieces in place, ready to be set in motion. And then, fifteen years since he was sent to Aspen, five years ago now, his opportunity came.

There was no way the riot could be traced to him – the Block Boss of C-Wing had ordered a hit on foot-soldiers from a rival gang, and the reprisals had quickly spiraled out of control. The guards had all-but abandoned the affected areas of the prison, locking the doors and pulling back, writing-off their men inside and relying on starvation to bring the riot to heel. Many of his fellow inmates looked to him for leadership, encouraging him to organize them and take charge, using the violence as an opportunity for escape.

How stupid and blind they were! There was nowhere to go – the prison had been placed on lockdown and even if they broke out into the wider facility and then over the walls, they would simply find themselves in a larger cage. Aspen MaxSec had been built high in the atomic desert of the Rockies for a reason – there was nothing but tens of thousands of acres of scouring, scorching sand and razor-sharp rocks. The earth was an endless chewing sea of mouthless teeth, the air thick with grinding dust, the days broiling and the nights cold enough to freeze blood. There was no escape before release.

But he still led them. He led them in securing the prison, in bringing order to the rioting blocks, in protecting the guards and capturing the ringleaders. Cleverly – so cleverly he was certain not even his closest lieutenants noticed – he allowed his rivals in the prisoner hierarchy to die and denied protection to guards he'd earmarked as a problem or who stood in the way of the promotion of one particular guard, a shift-chief he'd had his eye on for two years.

She was his age, a scornful ice-queen with ambition to match her beauty who viewed her charges as scum but never underestimated them. She became warden when the previous one was dismissed in disgrace. She was no flighty girl to make elementary mistakes, but there was no way his efforts in ending the riot could be overlooked. And, maybe, there was something else in her decision to grant him further privileges and a relaxation of work duties.

She stirred next to him in the bed – she was lying on her side, naked like him. They had been lovers for three years now, him enjoying the unofficial and illicit privileges of her magnificent body. She had not been an easy seduction – and, really, he wondered who'd seduced who. She was no fool – by most standards of logic it was madness to get involved with a convict. If their liaison were found out, she would share his fate as an inmate of Aspen.

But perhaps she already was a prisoner. The howling desert of the Cursed Earth caged her as surely as it did any of her charges. She was far from civilization, surrounded by criminals – murderers and worse – commanding a discontented army of ambitious men suffering in the same place she was. She had risen to the place he wanted her, and now she realized she was disillusioned with it and she wanted something different, more.

It was an easy step for her to go from seeing herself as the keeper of prisoners to a queen of criminals. She had her empire, bounded by the walls of Aspen, but if she wanted more she needed a prince to rule by her side. He would be an asset to her, someone who could help her with his knowledge and skills when he was released. He introduced her to contacts back in the city, people who would welcome his return and through whom she could lay the foundation for her new career. It had been an easy step from one side of the law to the other, and an even shorter one to his lover.

As he thought of this, remembering all their times together – from the first tryst against the wall of the gymnasium shower, thought the numerous encounters in her office and eventually bedroom, to the latest, so recent the sweat of the coupling was still drying on their skin – he turned towards her and drank in her beauty. She was tall and long-limbed, a magnificent Amazon of a woman blessed with a natural hourglass figure she had honed to muscular perfection with fearsome daily exertions in the gym. Possessively and critically, he admired her breasts – a year before, she'd traveled to Texas City to have them enhanced at his request. He enjoyed the glorious athleticism of her body, but he made no secret of the fact he liked his women curvacious and feminine. Exercise had given her enviously-muscular hips and thighs and a swinging tush that could stop traffic, but also trimmed every spare ounce of fat from her body, leaving her flat-chested. Now her breasts were biosculpted perfection; high and tight, unnaturally large and so firm a bra was unnecessary.

She exulted in the effect her body had on him, teasing him by flaunting herself at him out in the prison, acting as if no special relationship existed between them, delighting in the way he lost control when he was with her. She was in charge – that was why she'd gone under the knife, a simple procedure to give her the key to his desire. He was so easy to manipulate, all his energy and potency melting to nothing in a sudden, delicious spasm.

He saw it differently, of course – the day he'd sent her to get her breasts enlarged had marked a watershed in their relationship. He'd told her what to do and she'd done it, having her flesh sliced open and plasteen bags of silicone inserted to turn her into what he wanted her to be. She'd been far more alluring when she came back, of course, much more able to coax him into bed – but she'd also been much more willing to do what he wanted when they were there.

He smiled as he remembered the progression of their sex – it elevated it too much to call it "lovemaking". At first she had enjoyed him in quick, disposable encounters in the showers – panting her orders and instructions and plans to him in between her gasps and screams. Later, she had delighted in summoning him to her office, straddling him on her couch and dismissing him when she'd taken her pleasure.

Eventually, of course, they had progressed to the bed in her quarters next to her office, still with her on top at the beginning but with her coming to enjoy assuming the traditional female role more frequently. She had still tended to send him away once they were done – perhaps fearing the guards would notice he wasn't in his cell – but gradually she'd stopped worrying about that and he'd spent many nights slumbering in a comfortable bed next to her.

When she'd returned from Texas City, her new pliability had encouraged him to push further. It wasn't long before they were back in her office, using her desk for something other than paperwork. He still liked to finish inside her like that, enjoying her face pressed to the blotter and the muscles of her back flexing impotently, but now they'd mostly graduated to her chair. He sat in it, she facing away from him as she straddled his lap. He told her – truthfully – it was because the sight of her hard ass and the feel of her enhanced breasts cupped from behind drove him wild, but making her give up more than her flesh was his real goal.

Memories had awakened his desire; his body needed hers again. He reached out and shoved her over, climbing atop her as she woke. They grunted wordlessly as they coupled, each brutally forcing pleasure onto the other, struggling to make the victim surrender first. He snarled triumphantly as she lost beneath him, her strong body arching and writhing like a nest of rad-eels in his arms, her defeat driving him over the edge.

They rolled apart to lie gasping side by side. He didn't speak, resuming his introspective staring at the ceiling. She propped herself up on one elbow, leaning over him. He didn't react, continuing to stare past her. She ran a strong hand over the lean, wiry muscles of his chest, lightly scratching flirtatious sigils with her short, unpainted nails. He still didn't move. She pressed herself to him, more desperately now, sliding her firm flesh against his.

Finally, he turned to face her, looking at her dispassionately. She was really very, very beautiful – ash-gray eyes, pursed pink lips and a cute button nose. She wore no cosmetics and no scent except that of her soap. Once they were out of here, he decided, she was going to wear make-up and grow her hair out – at least into a pixie or urchin cut. As was practical in the prison, she kept her platinum-blonde hair buzzed close to the scalp, denying an attacker something to grab in a fight. He wanted to be able to grab it too – in something other than a fight, of course, but perhaps there too.

After all; who knew how things might play out once he was back in the city and his long-range plan of revenge was coming to fruition?

"Freedom tomorrow, baby," she said. "The transport leaves at oh-eight-hundred. The firebug'll be set on the main fuel line – it'll arm as soon as the radio signal fades."

He nodded – they'd gone over this plan a dozen times, she was just making conversation. "How far out'll that be?" he asked. She shrugged.

"Depends on the weather, but fifty, sixty miles. The lights in the cabin will flash once it's armed – you'll have a minute to get out before it detonates. You'll have enough time, won't you, baby?" she asked nervously. She wormed herself into him, running her hand through his hair and nuzzling his neck. "I worry about you."

Satiated and preoccupied, he pushed her off. "More than enough," he said shortly. "Two guards and two pilots? Piece of cake."

"You'll be cuffed," she reminded him.

"I said it'll be fine!" he snapped. She pouted and drew back, but then looked angry. He remembered she could still make life difficult for him, and that if he didn't play nice she might decide she could do this without him. "I'm sorry, honey," he said. "It's just . . . big day tomorrow. Where will that put me, when it goes down?"

She smiled at him, mollified. "Range of the transmitter depends on the weather," she said, "but you should be within ten miles of Butte Junction. RoboRail's train comes through there just before ten. It can't go fast there – it'll slow right down and you can jump on and hitch a ride all the way to Mega City One. You should be there in two days, no more. I'll meet you there." She smiled again, genuine affection in her eyes and some long-buried, atrophied conscience twinged inside him as he considered how he'd ruined her. But he quickly shoved that unwelcome feeling aside, rationalizing it away. He didn't love her, he didn't hate her – she was just a means to an end, a means by which he could get his revenge on the one that he did love and did hate. "Two days, baby – two days and we're together forever, you and me, large and in charge of all the rackets of Mega City One! They won't know what hit them, baby!"

He grunted noncommittally. "Not gonna be as easy as all that, honey," he said darkly. "Lots of work to do before we're on easy street. People we need to deal with, scores we need to settle." His hands curled into fists and he grit his teeth, starting fixedly at nothing, his eyes burning with rage.

She knew what he was talking about – she'd endured his rants often enough, his all-consuming hatred and obsession. It was to be expected, after what he'd done to him, how he'd treated him. It was a wound she couldn't heal. She'd tried, once or twice, to help him, to get him to let go of his hate. That had been wrong of her – he'd had to hurt her because of it, what he'd done to him making him lash out at her. She knew now healing would only come when the other was dead and defeated, when he was the undisputed victor in their private war.

"We'll do it, baby," she promised him. "By the time we're finished, there'll be only one Dredd in Mega City One, and that'll be my stud Rico."

**A/n :** This story is – while set in the same "world" as the rest of my fics – not directly connected to them. The events described are part of the history of the characters in my world, but this story isn't part of that overarching narrative. This story doesn't require you to have read anything else, although "Assessment Over" and aaron.92's story "Dredd II" are canonical for this.

I was inspired to write this story both directly and indirectly by Darth Gilthoron and his work on "The Cursed Earth". He took a classic Dredd comic story and retold it in prose in the style of the 2012 movie. Inspired by that, I wanted to do something similar – although the "Return of Rico" story is just a single prog rather than the long-running "Cursed Earth" saga. The Stallone "Judge Dredd" movie also dealt with Rico, and I will be using some of the elements from that in this piece.

I was directly inspired by Darth Gilthoron's "The Cursed Earth" (which is an excellent story – despite stylistic differences I have with him, I do think it is superb) in that he has scenes with Rico on Titan. These explore his history and motivations, and are some of the best scenes in the story I think. I've used some of the elements he had in his piece as inspiration for this opening chapter.

I don't want to give away too-much about the plot here – and that is made easier because I'm not actually sure what the plot is going to be! I have vague ideas, but nothing concrete. Really, I was inspired to write this off-the-cuff – a sudden spurt of inspiration. I have definite plans and concepts for the Cornelius-Anderson stories (which will handle "The Day The Law Died" and "Judge Death") but this is much more vague.

In terms of chronology, this story takes place about a year after the "Dredd 3D" movie, and a couple of months (maybe three) after "Dredd II" by aaron.92 (that story isn't essential to read – but you should read it because it is awesome and canonical for this.) Linking to my own stories, this takes place about a year before "Aegis".

A note on "Aspen vs Titan" - in the comics, Titan (the moon of Saturn) is a prison planet. In the Stallone movie, Aspen in the Rockies is the secure penitentiary. I thought the "Dredd 3D" movie didn't feel like a setting with extra-terrestrial prisons, so I used Aspen in "Aegis" and I reuse it here.

I have previously tried to keep stories rated "T" - deliberating not using 'real' swearwords and instead following the comics' conventions with fake swear words. I have also only made veiled sexual references. A lot of the stylistic difference between myself and Darth Gilthoron related to sexual themes and the use of them. In this story, in order to highlight the villainous (and even somewhat weak – he is ruled by his passions, rather than ruling them as Joe Dredd does) nature of Rico I have made the sexual themes more overt. The nastiness of his personality can be seen in this chapter in the way he treats the warden as an object, a means to an end, and wants to dominate and control her rather than any kind of genuine affection.

I thought this choice was useful to show Rico's personality, but I didn't want to overdo it. Very, very likely the sexual themes will lessen from this start, and certainly won't get any more overt. And, as I said at the beginning, the sexual elements are not written to titillate – and _WILL NOT_ be written to titillate, so don't ask! They are written to show the personality of these villains.

Accordingly, none of the sexual violence or cruelty here should be understood as endorsing this kind of thing. A good story needs villains, and villains are villainous.

Phew! Long author's note, and I am not sure it explains everything. But why not review? Just write below! I will reply to all reviews and always return the review love, I promise. I shall be continuing this story – but when the inspiration strikes; this is my "change it up" story so updates might not be very regular.


	2. Sector Thirteen

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Chapter Two : Sector Thirteen**

If Anderson had never seen Peach Trees again, it would have been too soon. She and Dredd had managed to avoid it for a full year, but their luck had run out now. Towards the end of a long and weary shift the call had come in – screams from an apartment on level seventeen.

Normally, that wouldn't have got a Judicial response – certainly not in a hell-hole like Peach Trees. The death of Ma-Ma and so many of her foot-soldiers at the hands of Dredd and Anderson a year before had crippled her gang, but nature abhorred a vacuum. New gangs had risen, crimelords moving in from other blocks to stake their claims and carve out some turf for themselves. The corridors of Peach Trees had, once again, run red with blood.

But the 911 call had been taken by a conscientious operator – he'd cross-referenced it through the database, matching the apartment with previous complaints and reports of domestic violence which hadn't gone anywhere. Perhaps finally sickened by the human misery and cruelty he sloshed through every day, he'd been unable to keep the cynicism out of his voice as he broadcast the full details to any Judge who might listen.

Surprisingly to anyone who didn't know him – which was, Anderson reflected, pretty much everyone but her – it was her partner who responded. "Dredd and Anderson," he growled almost before the operator had finished speaking, "we'll take Peach Trees." He glanced towards her, the very corner of his perma-frown twitching. "Heh," he said. "Isn't this where we came in?"

Anderson, helmetless as usual, shot him a glance over her shoulder. "Or where we go out," she said darkly. She gave a little shiver.

"You okay?" he asked.

She shrugged, shaking herself like a dog bothered with rad-fleas. "Yeah," she said. "Just . . . urgh. Psi-flash. Like someone walked over my grave."

"Aw, damnit!" said the woman Anderson had in an armlock, face pressed against the wall. "I was hoping to do that."

"Can it, cutie," Anderson said dispassionately. "Be thankful I didn't cap your pretty ass." She wrenched the perp's other arm down, marching her over to the holding post and cuffing her there. She lifted her wrist. "Control, grab and a slab at the corner of Wagner and Twelve. Grab's a six stretch." She stepped delicately over the cooling corpse at her feet, avoiding the congealing pools of blood as she mounted her bike. She started the engine and followed after Dredd as he zoomed off in a cloud of street dust and blown trash.

oOo

"On three?" Dredd asked outside the door to the apartment. It was silent now, but the nosy next-door neighbor who'd called it in had delighted in regaling them with the details of the screams and other noises, the comings-and-goings of suspicious characters. What was going on was obvious and all-too common in the city. Despite her personal revulsion at such things, Anderson was glad she was here – with her abilities, she was able to offer a fairer adjudication to the women caught up in this than many other Judges.

She nodded, her lawgiver already drawn. And then the loud crack of a flesh-on-flesh crack echoed through the door, followed by a shrieking scream and a tirade of swearing invective.

"Three!" snapped Dredd, kicking the door open and charging through. He'd fired twice before Anderson was even inside the room. A shirtless perp, his stocky torso cut with gang tats and punctured with Dredd's shots, was slumped on a stained sofa, breathing his last. A woman – her tear-streaked face red from a recent blow – was cowering and sobbing behind her hands, perhaps not even realizing what had happened. The smell of blood was clean and coppery, almost antiseptic compared to the cloying, rotting stench of filth, grime, funk sweat and worse. "More?" asked Dredd.

"Four," said Anderson crisply. She lifted her lawgiver and pointed it towards a doorway deeper into the apartment. "A john with a hooker, two girls in another bedroom. I got it." She swiftly followed her gun down the corridor, glancing through an open door. Two half-naked women were cuffed to the headboard of a dirty, unmade bed. They were younger than her – mere girls, really – thin and drawn with needle marks on their forearms. Their minds were foggy and defeated – drugged and beaten, slaves for the gang. Anderson swept though their thoughts, finding nothing threatening behind their surprise. Cuffed, they weren't a threat to her rear.

She moved to the next door and kicked it open, stepping through with her gun raised. A fat, sweaty man shrieked as he pulled himself off and out of an older, dead-eyed slattern on the filthy bed. Despite her revulsion, Anderson kept her eyes on him and her mind wrapped around his. "Don't!" she warned as she psynsed his shift from lust to anger.

He didn't listen and lunged for his discarded pants. He never reached the gun in the pocket – her bullet struck him in the chest, sending ripples though his flabby torso. She shut her mind to his pain as he died, turning towards the woman. She reached for her cuffs. "You're under . . ." she began.

The hooker howled in rage and snatched up a gaudy lamp, swinging at Anderson with a shout of rage. The Judge lowered her gun and stepped to the side, driving her knee into the whore's floppy stomach as she stumbled past. She went down, coughing and spewing. Anderson holstered her gun and cuffed her, dragging her to her feet and marching her back into the main room.

Dredd had hauled the perp's corpse off the couch to give the battered woman some distance from death. She'd flung herself at him, sobbing furiously, thanking him over and over again. He was pushing her gently way, trying to be compassionate and make allowances for her hysteria. As Anderson entered the room, a spike of sharp intention speared her psynses. She shoved the older hooker to the side and drew her gun, firing once from the hip.

The battered woman was flung forward as the bullet hit her in the spine, her mouth gaping open in a silent scream and her arms going wide. The knife in her hand clattered to the floor as she slumped, dead, against Dredd. Blood splattered his armor and he stepped back to let her fall to the floor.

The two Judges looked at each other. Anderson's face a carefully-composed mask as she tried to shut out the sensation – sights, smells, emotions – battering against her. Dredd's mouth twitched as he looked at the blood dripping off his uniform onto the floor. He shifted his feet as the crimson drops splattered amid the ankle-deep detritus of rotting fast-food scraps, drug paraphernalia and general trash. Even he as swallowed his revulsion that movement disturbed scurrying roaches and other vermin. He looked up at Anderson. "Thanks," he said.

"What are partners for?" she said shortly, trying to breathe through her mouth. Perhaps clued by precognition, she lifted her wrist an instant before her chronometer bleeped. Their shift was over. She looked with distaste at the glistening fluids splattered here and there on her armor. "Hell of a way to end it," she said.

Dredd nodded. "You wanna go get something to eat?" he asked.

"I think I wanna throw up," she said grimly.

oOo

Dredd didn't ask if Anderson had thrown up, but when she came out of the public restroom in the Sector Thirteen transit station her face was scrubbed shining pink and drops of water beaded on her uniform from where she'd sluiced it down. Dredd had saved her a seat at one of the rickety, mismatched tables next to the noodle stand. She sat down and smiled her thanks as he pushed the tray of curry over to her.

Maybe she had thrown up – she certainly looked hungry enough. She slurped and shoveled the noodles into her mouth, her head bent low over her plate. She handled the chopsticks with casual ease, but Dredd had never got used to them. Nor the taste of curry – he twirled his fork in his plain noodles, spearing a cube of seared chikin whitemeat. To him, the food at the end of a shift was just fuel for his body. To Anderson, meals were a big deal – he didn't agree with it, but he had to eat anyway. It was either take-out with his partner or a self-heating sack-snack at home alone. Joe Dredd wasn't much of a chef.

Only when half the noodles had vanished into her slobbering maw – leaving big splatters and streaks of sauce on her chin – did he try to talk to her. "Spoke to Benson – the two girls are runaways, vanished from sector 24 six months ago. Ran their prints, no priors. Six months suspended for drug use, mandatory rehab. They'll be back with their parents tonight – Benson's gonna keep an eye on 'em."

Anderson wanted to highlight his compassion. "Prostitution's a mandatory twelve in the 'cubes," she reminded him.

He shrugged. "I didn't see 'em frakking, did you?" he asked. He stuffed a big forkful of vat-grown protein and noodles into his mouth. "You know how over-worked forensics are – take days to even book a gyno exam. Benson'll follow up – see if they wanna file rape charges." He chewed for a second. "Let SVU handle it; we'd just make it criminal."

Anderson grinned. "You're a good man, Joe Dredd," she said without irony.

He didn't blush – ever – but his mindscape flared with embarrassment. "Just doing my job, Anderson," he muttered.

She felt guilty for pushing him and turned her attention back to her noodles. "Strange it was Peach Trees again," she remarked. "Exactly a year since . . ." Her voice trailed off, her mind running with memories. "Yeah," she managed. "Exactly a year."

"You superstitious, Anderson?" growled Dredd. "Coincidence, nothing more. It's no big deal."

Anderson lifted her head and looked at him seriously. "It was to me," she said softly.

His frown twisted into a wince. "You know what I mean," he told her. "But, yeah . . . it was a big deal for you. For me, though," he said apologetically, "it was just a Tuesday."

"It was a _Thursday_," Anderson corrected him. "I remember because . . . I guess that just makes your point, huh?" she realized sourly. He shrugged.

"No Judge in the Department I'd rather work with, Anderson," he said sincerely. "You know that, right?"

"Well," she drawled, "I don't like to go prying in your head, so I'm not certain . . ." Her poise cracked and she laughed. "Yeah," she said. "I know that – do you know how much that means to me? You've been there for me – twelve months, day in, day out. You've taught me, mentored me, patched me up, let me cry on your shoulder. Made that fail Cadet into a damn-good Judge."

It was impossible, of course, but there was the faintest touch of color beneath the stubble and scars on his cheeks. "I'm senior partner, Anderson," he grunted. "Twenty-year man, seen a lot. Just doing my job."

Anderson tucked the end of her last noodle into her mouth and sucked it through her pursed lips with a slurp that sounded like a sloppy kiss. "Well," she said, tossing down her chopsticks and wiping her saucy face with a napkin, "you're drokking good at it." She was thankful both their communicators chose just that instant to bleep – the tone reserved for HOJ communiques and orders. She sighed wearily. "Seriously?" she complained. "You think they know our shift _just_ finished?"

"You think they care?" asked Dredd. She laughed despite herself and looked at the blocky blue text on her gauntlet screen. Her unexpectedly-dark eyebrows went scrambling up in surprise.

"We gotta bounce," she said, standing and pushing her chair back. "DCJ wants to see me."

Dredd slowly nodded. "Don't want to keep him waiting," he agreed. He peered over at her discarded plate – there was a lone piece of muttun sitting in the corner. He speared it with his fork and tried it, grimacing slightly at the taste and taking a heavy gulp of his water. He turned his attention back to his own noodles and chikin.

"Well, hurry up!" she exclaimed. He shook his head.

"Doesn't want to see me," he said. "Wants to see _you_." He emphasized the last word with a pointed fork.

"You got a beep!" she said. "You beeped – I heard it! Who beeped my partner?"

Dredd swallowed and ran his tongue over his teeth. "Chief Judge," he said shortly, picking a fiber of chikin from between them with a fingernail. "_She_ wants to see me."

Anderson glared at him – _of course_ he would have her outranked. "And you're not going?" she practically screamed.

He shrugged. "Don't mind keeping her waiting," he explained. "Got noodles to finish."

**A/n :** Not a lot of notes here. Although the comics show Judges working alone for the most part (particularly Dredd) the movie did show partners, and it makes a lot of sense (there is a reason most real-world law enforcement works in teams – it provides backup, protection, oversight and an extra witness etc.) In aaron.e92's "Dredd 2" Dredd and Anderson are partners, and I drew on that here. I don't know if I'd make it official J-Dept practice to assign a passed-Rookie to the assessor as junior partner, but it would make a _lot_ of sense to do that.

Anderson liking noodles and curry is taken from Khayr's stories.

What do you think? Short chapters, trying to capture the flavor of the city. Review box is right below – any feedback appreciated!


	3. Floor Ninety-Four

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Chapter Three : Floor Ninety-Four**

The Hall of Justice was a brutal block of gloss-black in the center of CapZone, sitting precisely at the Greek-cross junction of sectors one through four. Although tall, even by the standards of buildings in Mega City One, it seemed shorter because of its large footprint and featureless quality. The eternal curtain walls were laminated plasteen and re-enforced rockcrete sheathed in six-inch armorglass, mounted on hydraulic anchors designed to absorb kinetic forces without transmitting them to the main structure. This was constructed from meters-thick columns of rockcrete bound together with triple-redundant plasteen girders and beams. There were, of course, no windows – even if there was a view to see other than the featureless gray inner surface of the outer walls, they would weaken the building unacceptably.

It stood in the center of an empty plaza, a poured slab of rockcrete seven stories deep. Basement levels – including armored bunkers, secured command centers and more – had been constructed before the foundation was lain. The plaza not only provided lines of visibility and fire but also kept surrounding buildings far enough from the Hall of Justice rubble from their destruction would not – under any speculated demolition scenario – strike the Hall with force over 75% of the curtain walls' projected load limit. The building was armored, insulated, equipped with multiple overlapping safety and security systems and capable of functioning independently while supporting up to 150% of its regular staff for a month when completely isolated from main city utilities. Tek-Division's best-estimates gave a 50% survivability rating for the building's inhabitants in the event of a direct 10 megaton atomic strike

The ninety-fifth floor – the final one before the mechanical levels containing elevator gear, environmental control and the supports and power systems for the roof-mounted communications and defense installations – housed the Chief Judge's offices, the Council Chamber and a dedicated emergency medical suite with full ABC isolation and fitted with an orbital-capable escape pod. It was rare a Street-Judge was called to that floor – most of them only went there once, the morning after they passed their Assessment, for their formal swearing-in with the Chief Judge. That was the case for Anderson herself.

Floor ninety-four was a more common destination, although by no means frequent for Street-Judges. Floor ninety-four contained offices for senior divisions' chiefs – Tek, Med, Accounting, SJS, Wally, Academy of Law – as well the the Deputy Chief Judge's. Judge Cal was both head of SJS and DCJ, and as luck would have it the two suites were next to each other in the south-eastern quadrant. Minor construction work had connected them, allowing him to not only fulfill his duties more easily, but also have a luxuriously pleasant office.

Anderson stood at parade-ground ease in the suite's anteroom. There were chairs enough to sit – comfortable-looking ones – but she was very conscious of the dirt on her uniform and body. It was cool here in the Hall of Justice, the air conditioned without the wind-blown dust and pollutants of the city outside. She could feel the sweat drying on her skin, the feeling of sticky-grit in the crevasses of her flesh and under the tight straps of her uniform. The synthetic material was designed to breathe, but there was only so much technology could do with thick leather and heavy armor. Her hair was tangled and plastered with dirt, stiff with dried sweat and sticking up at odd angles after being squashed inside her helmet.

She shifted slightly – her thigh hurt, and taking some weight off it helped. She couldn't remember injuring it – it might have been during her patrol, perhaps hand-to-hand practice yesterday, or maybe she'd pulled it when she last went to the gym. A waft of stale sweat and body odor hit her nostrils. Gingerly and embarrassed, she pulled at the front of her collar, dipping her nose to subtly sniff. Yes, that was her – in the pleasant, clean office with the faint scent of flowers from the vase on the receptionist's desk her own smell nauseated her. She closed her eyes and wished Cal had called her at any other time – even being woken from a dead sleep would have been better than coming here like this.

Her eyes opened as the door to Cal's office did. The Deputy Chief Judge held it open for a tall, beautiful woman wearing smart gray to walk through. Anderson didn't recognize the uniform – it was a well-cut tunic and pants, suggesting dress rather than fatigues, with a practical belt and comfortable-looking spug-kicker boots. The whole ensemble was immaculate – the boots and belt bulled to a mirror sheen, the uniform crisply ironed and not a button out of place. Anderson felt filthy in her presence with her scuffed Street-fatigues and battered armor-web, not to mention the practical irregularities that would garner her a fail at the Academy's uniform inspection but were essential for street survival.

The woman was almost a full head taller than her, six feet in her heavy boots, and with a magnificently athletic figure revealed by the exquisitely-tailored uniform. Anderson guessed her age at mid- to late-thirties, about the same as Dredd. Prying into her mind might have revealed something more exact, but unless the woman were thinking about her birthday it would require peeling back layers – and that was more invasive than the psi liked to get without a very good reason. Her platinum-blonde hair was shaved close to her scalp and she wore no make-up or jewelery. Even without those feminine touches – or perhaps because of them – she was incredibly beautiful. Her face was severe and aristocratic, but when she smiled – and, as Cal was saying goodbye to her, she smiled often – she had the most wonderful expression.

Anderson wasn't a woman given much to vanity or jealousy. With her unique advantages and position, she was not often given pleasant compliments. Lewd comments – and thoughts – from perps on the streets were par for the course, and digging any depth into them uncovered the seamy undercurrent of violence, hatred and self-loathing that fueled them. The monastic code – firmly enforced by the SJS and Sector Chiefs – meant other Judges never articulated their appreciation, and even when she happened to zone in on unguarded thoughts the undercurrent of forbidden-fear they were breaking some rule soured it for her and filled her with guilt. She knew without false-modesty she was attractive, but that fact was no more important to her than the color of her eyes or hair, nor did she ever judge herself against others.

But this woman tweaked an emotional response from her – it took her a moment to recognize it in herself, although she was familiar with it in others. It was envy, jealousy. She couldn't be sure if it was over the woman's beauty or her importance – she was meeting with Judge Cal and was obviously close to him – or perhaps just because she was clean and comfortable and Anderson was not. She pushed it aside – she was tired, uncomfortable and antsy. She shouldn't be surprised if her judgment were flawed.

Cal walked with the woman through the anteroom, opening the outer door for her. He shook her hand. "Thank you for coming, Karen," he said. "Good luck in your new assignment – if you need anything . . ." The woman smiled and gave a smart nod.

"Thank you, Sir. I will, Sir," she said. Anderson got a clearer look at her shoulder boards as she stood there – they had the skull-eagle logo of SJS in auxiliary-silver next to the portcullis logo of the penitentiary service. The woman was a prison guard, although why she was also an SJS Judicial-Auxiliary was anyone's guess.

Cal turned his pale blue eyes towards Anderson, politely smiling at her. The receptionist coughed. "Judge Anderson, Sir," she said. "Your three o'clock?"

"Ah, yes!" said Cal brightly. "Thank you for coming, Judge Anderson. Karen, this is Judge Cassandra Anderson, one of our Street-Judges. Judge Anderson, this is Warden Karen Vanderbilt. She was in charge of the Aspen MaxSec Penitentiary."

The two women shook hands. Vanderbilt had a powerful grip and used the power of her broad shoulders without seeming to try. Now the SJS logo made sense – Aspen MaxSec was the prison for disgraced Judges high in the Colorado Rockies. The civilian auxiliaries who were wardens and guards reported to the Special Judicial Service, the Department's internal affairs division. She was an intimidating figure, and although even thinking about it was childish and silly Anderson concluded Vanderbilt would win any fight – her height and weight, not to mention specific experience in defeating Judges, would see to that. "Warden Vanderbilt," was all she said.

"A pleasure, Judge Anderson," Vanderbilt said politely, but her ash-gray eyes flitted over Anderson's dirty uniform and scruffy appearance with superior disdain.

A faint blush rose on Anderson's pale cheeks, but it was Cal who spoke. "Judge Anderson was kind enough to come directly here from her patrol, Karen," he explained. There was a very faint edge to his voice that mollified Anderson. "It's a dirty city out there, and 'cleaning up the streets' means something other than scrubbing them."

Now it was Vanderbilt's turn to look embarrassed. "Oh, yes," she stammered. "Of course. No offense, Judge Anderson."

Anderson shrugged. "None taken, Warden Vanderbilt. Your new assignment is . . . ?"

Vanderbilt glanced at Cal and then looked back to Anderson. "Warden of sector 27 Isoblock," she said shortly.

Anderson nodded. "I've put a few perps there," she said with a grin. "Hope they won't cause you any trouble."

Vanderbilt's smile was cold. "I doubt they will," she said firmly.

"Judge Anderson has a _very_ impressive record," Cal said urgently, shifting a little so he stood more between the two women. "Less than a year on the streets. Judge _Dredd's_ partner – and she manages to keep up with _him_."

Now Vanderbilt's smile was cryonic. "I've heard a lot about Judge Dredd," she said shortly.

Anderson gave no outward sign, but she pushed against Vanderbilt's mindscape with her psynses. It was a wintry feeling; the woman was frosty, yes, but she was also by equal degrees numbing and shattering. Anderson had an image of a high, featureless glacier cliff – a wall Vanderbilt had erected long ago to both protect her and keep others at a distance. She had her ambition, her drive to keep her warm – but it was a lonely existence for the lady in the icy tower. Anderson sympathized with her – penitentiary guard was a difficult job, harder for a beautiful woman who her colleagues might think she'd won promotions on her back and who the prisoners would delight in cat-calling and fantasizing about. You'd need eyes in the back of your head out in the prison, and a moment's lapse would end being shanked with far worse than a makeshift shiv. "It's all true," was all she said with her best attempt at a warm, sisterly smile. She turned to Cal. "Actually, Sir," she said, "it's exactly a year today."

Cal blinked once or twice, his smile suddenly-fixed for an instant as if he did not like to be corrected. And then he laughed. "Happy anniversary, Judge Anderson!" he exclaimed. "We should have cake." He turned to the receptionist. "Send down to the canteen for some cake," he ordered. He faced Anderson again. "Cake," he said with a happy nod.

Anderson gave a one-shouldered shrug and a nervous little laugh, glancing at Vanderbilt. "Thank you, Sir," she said, "but there's really no need . . ."

"I insist," Cal said crisply, his voice and eyes suddenly hard, "on _cake_."

A shiver crawled over Anderson's shoulders at the fanatical sparkle in Cal's eyes. _Guess he really likes cake_, she thought. She lowered her head deferentially and slid into partial-attention. "Yes, Sir," she said demurely. "Thank you, Sir."

Vanderbilt broke the awkward silence. "I should be going," she said, almost sliding through the open door. "I have a three o'clock of my own. Thanks for seeing me, Sir. Good to meet you, Judge Anderson – enjoy your cake," she added as a parting shot as the door closed.

Cal put his hand on Anderson's elbow and gestured towards his private office. "Come, Judge Anderson – let's have a coffee, and a chat." He turned to the receptionist. "When the cake arrives, bring it in immediately." The receptionist nodded and the two Judges moved across the room. "You know Judge Slocum?" Cal asked Anderson curiously as he held the door open for her, pointing out the unappealing man waiting in the office for them.

She gave a slightly-sickly smile. "By reputation," she admitted.

**A/n :** Another short chapter. I decided to break it here because the conversation with Cal (and Slocum) in his office could get fairly long. Also, I am not sure if I want to keep the focus on Anderson and Cal, or move to Dredd and the Chief Judge for chapter four.

Cal & Slocum are characters from "The Day The Law Died" - although they do appear in my other stories.

Alright, you've read this far – why not review? Tell me what you think – box is right below. Just type it and hit the button! I always reply and always return the favor.


	4. Kaffee und Kuchen

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Chapter Four : Kaffee und Kuchen**

Slocum's reputation preceded him and it wasn't good. He didn't stand or acknowledge Anderson as she walked in, merely sliding his eyes sideways and running them over her. To her psynses his mind tasted the way the Peach Trees apartment had smelled. The pawing attention was clammy, both appreciating her legs and looking for the hamstring.

The SJS – of whom Slocum was a senior member – had not always been a separate Division within the Department, and this was reflected in their name. When President Gurney was re-elected to the White House on his 'New Deal' platform of instant street justice his opponents and detractors were quick to point out that without some kind of oversight corruption was inevitable. Although ostensibly insulted by the suggestion, privately Judge Fargo agreed – the Judges were, after all, only human.

The system Fargo created was not a dedicated internal affairs division – he maintained that would merely lift the potential for corruption to a level where it was likely to be more dangerous. Rather, when a Judge was accused of fear, favor or ill-will, or suspected of misconduct, the investigation and presentation of the subsequent case before the Chief Judge was undertaken by Judges drawn by random lottery. This temporary assignment was called _special judicial service_ and worked well for many years; the fact investigating Judges were unknown and uninterested helped preserve justice.

But there were problems with the system, too; as the century wore on and the level of crime rose sector chiefs chafed against sending men they needed for street policing to investigate their colleagues. In locker- and squad-rooms, the open discussion was that prosecuting Judges was counterproductive, that a little abuse or corruption was no big deal. Judges needed to be tough on crime – if that meant bending the rules or looking the other way for the sake of the big picture, that was acceptable. There was an unspoken agreement that Judges on special judicial service should be lenient to their colleagues, should understand the pressures they were all under. And it was clear a lack of 'empathy' during special judicial service would not be appreciated and could easily come back to bite a Judge on the ass.

Still, the system endured; perhaps feeling better the devil you know than the devil you don't, Chief Judge Fargo refused to establish a dedicated internal affairs division. But it was clear the system had become untenable. After Fargo's death and the appointment of Solomon as Chief Judge a final random lottery selected one-in-twenty Judges to form the new Internal Affairs Division.

The assignment stuck, the name didn't – the entire department still called it special judicial service and within two years the name was formally changed.

It took a particular kind of Judge to serve in the SJS; meticulous, precise, and detail-oriented; dedicated, conscientious, even obsessive. But also suspicious, paranoid, and with the potential to be deceptive or even duplicitous. They were the Judges who judged Judges, investigating trained investigators, interrogating expert interrogators. If they did not start out as cynical and manipulative, they quickly became so – not only the inevitable experiences on the job made them that way, but also the distrust and even hatred from the rest of the Department. The best of them were devoted to justice and The Law, willing to lay down their lives for the integrity of Fargo's dream and the Department – but all of them were open to the terrible temptations of distrust, ambition and abuse.

Slocum wasn't one of the best – even setting aside the creepy feeling every female Judge got in his presence, his reputation was as a company man, loyal to Cal before the Department or even the SJS. The Deputy Chief Judge kept him around, so the scuttlebutt ran, precisely because of that – his ambition went to the number two position in the Division and no further. He was supremely capable of carrying out his boss' instructions and desires, and never deviated from them.

Cal, on the other hand, was one of the finest the SJS had ever produced – not only a dedicated and competent investigator, but also a savvy politician with a good instinct for balancing the good of the Department against that of the city. He had been recruited almost immediately out of the Academy, and had spent his entire career in internal affairs. He had been the first chief of SJS to sit on the Council of Five, the first to serve as Deputy Chief Judge. He was – so said Street – a good man, as well-liked and respected as it was for a head of IA to be.

Slocum was seated on one of a pair of couches either side of a low table in the center of the luxurious room; the inner sanctum of Cal's office was large, well-proportioned and furnished with deep carpets and handsome furniture. It was in the corner of the building – there were no windows, of course, and even if there had been the armored curtain walls would have made the view nothing more than the featureless gray of poured-plasteen panels. But there were massive vidpanels installed on the outer walls, high-definition plasma screens displaying the view that would have been visible from this floor with startling fidelity. Sophisticated backlighting ensured the room was illuminated as if by the mid-afternoon sun, and the room was bright and sunwashed high above the smog and shadows of the street. As obviously artificial was it was, Anderson just stood for a second and basked in it – she fancied she could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, hot on her uniform. She opened her eyes as Slocum patted the cushion next to him. "Come and sit down, Judge Anderson," he said, "and we'll have a chat."

Slocum's appearance didn't belie his mindscape; he was a balding, scrawny man with eyes sunk pigishly into his face. They gleamed with the shine of spit of asphalt. His teeth were very small and very regular, rounded at the tips, and his tongue was pale and pointed.

Anderson stood her ground on the carpet, her dirty boots pressing heavily into it. "Begging the Judge's pardon, Sir," she said precisely, "but I am . . . a little dirty." The muscles at the points of her jaw popped at the greasy flare in his thoughts her psynses couldn't help but pick up on. She started to explain. "My uniform has . . ." She stopped – he didn't need the details of blood, vomit, spit, oil and worse splattered on her fatigues. "I don't want to mess up the cushions, Sir," she explained.

"Oh," said Cal brightly, his back to them, "don't worry about it, Judge Anderson. They can be laundered." He was standing by a large tank set into one of the walls – it was ten feet long, reaching from the top of his head to his waist and so deep the printed backdrop of the rear wall was murky and distorted. He sprinkled food carefully into the water – gleaming dashes of iridescent red, gold and silver flashed and gulped at the flakes. He admired the fish for a few moments and then turned around. "And it's _honest_ dirt, Judge Anderson," he said with a warm smile.

"If you'd like," suggested Slocum with a spug-slurping grin, "you could take a shower – Judge Cal has a private bathroom I'm certain he wouldn't mind you using. You could borrow a robe – we could make an exception to uniform regulations this once, I'm sure."

Anderson didn't even glance at Cal, but she felt the weight of his attention on the tableau of her and Slocum, the careful assessment behind his stare, wondering if he were going to have to step in or if the younger Judge could handle it. She stepped forward with parade-ground precision, walking around the table and grabbing a chair from in front of the expansive desk. She spun it under her feet and sat at the table. "Thank you, Judge Slocum," she said with innocent appreciation, "but I don't shower alone. I'll wait 'til I get back to the sector house; let the girls scrub the bits I can't reach."

Slocum colored and stiffened – perhaps in more ways than one; his legs were crossed and Anderson _certainly_ wasn't looking so she couldn't tell. He was affronted, definitely, and might have been about to say something but Cal laughed and spoke first. "You are quite the character, Judge Anderson," he chuckled. "Your reputation, of course, proceeds you – but it didn't do you justice. It can't be easy being who you are, where you are – but you handle it very well," he added, giving the impression – perhaps after the fact – this had been some kind of test she had passed. For the sake of politics, she decided to neither dig deeper to psynse if that was the case or make something of it. She nodded and gave a thin, respectful smile. Cal snapped his eyes to Slocum. "The cake will be here soon," he said. "Fetch some coffees, can you?"

Anderson bit the inside of her lip to stop herself smiling at the black spike of anger that pierced Slocum's thoughts and very deliberately did not meet his gaze as he jerked himself to his feet and stalked to the corner of the room. Cal sat down in the center of the opposite couch, spreading his arms across the back and stretching out his feet. Unlike most of the SJS, his day-to-day wear was justice-blue fatigues rather than sentencing-black – he had a Street-rating to engage, sentence and execute as a member of the Council, as well as one in his own right, not to mention the specialized rating all SJS had to judge Judges, but he found the display of humility useful when dealing with Street officers.

Cal was about average height, slim but athletic, with a fine, regal face and tightly-curled blond hair. He was older than Anderson by a fair margin, about Dredd's age but younger-looking than her partner. As she watched him relax in the comfortable chair, she didn't wonder why – but neither did she begrudge him his physical ease. There was a complex, guarded worry to his thoughts and a network of fine lines around his careful, ice-blue eyes. The stresses of his job were something other than gunfights and brawls with perps hopped-up on the latest street drug.

Slocum's voice interrupted her reverie. "How d'you take your coffee, Judge Anderson?" he asked curtly. "Cream? Sugar?"

"Yes to the former, and the latter is illegal," Anderson said smoothly. Where he was standing by the little machine, putting in pods and pressing buttons, Slocum's spine stiffened but he didn't say a word. He came back to the table, setting down three steaming cups of dark brown liquid. He pushed one towards Anderson. She lifted and sipped it judiciously.

"Excellent coffee, Sir," she said – it wasn't mere politeness, it was without a doubt the best cup she'd ever tasted. Synthi-caf was acceptable to get you going in the morning, but real coffee had a luxury all its own. And this was a particularly fine brew – fresh, well-roasted, and with the fatty, glutinous mouth-feel of real cream from actual cows. Anderson had few vices, but a good cup of real coffee was one of them – one she couldn't indulge in nearly as often as she might like. Cal smiled.

"Rank hath its privileges, Judge Anderson," he said.

Anderson took another sip and then very deliberately set the cup back on its saucer. "What did you want to speak with me about, Sir?" she asked.

Slocum leaned forward. "We would like . . ."

"What do you think we'd like to speak with you about, Judge Anderson?" asked Cal smoothly, holding up a single finger to silence his subordinate.

The chair Anderson had chosen didn't allow her to relax as Cal was or show the eagerness Slocum did. She sat upright, carefully composed. "I wouldn't presume to hazard a guess, Sir," she said tightly.

"Indulge me," Cal purred, the very hint of a threat lurking at the edge of his words.

Anderson took another mouthful of coffee, and looked from one man to the other. "You're asking me to transfer to SJS," he said.

"I wouldn't say _asking_," said Slocum.

Cal winced at the indelicacy. He might have spoken, but at that moment there was a knock on the door and the receptionist walked. "The cake's arrived, Sir," she said. She set a tray down on the table and stood, awaiting further instructions.

Cal beamed and actually demurely clapped his hands a couple of times. "Splendid!" he exclaimed. "Just splendid! Thank you so much – that will be all." The receptionist nodded smartly and left. Cal turned to Anderson. "What a fine cake," he remarked. "Do you like it?"

Anderson smiled deferentially; the cake was about eight inches round, iced with gleaming yellow frosting and with a stylized eagle-shield piped on the top in black. Instead of a name it said 'CONGRATULATIONS'. It certainly looked delicious. She remembered cake, vaguely, from her youth – it had been a rare treat, for birthdays and other special occasions. The cost of the ingredients – even if made with ecks, algae-flour and the cheaper sweeteners, it wasn't inexpensive – had meant her family couldn't afford it often. "It looks delicious, Sir," she said. "Shall I cut you a slice?"

"Please," said Cal. He picked up a plate and held it out for her. There were three plates, each with a fork – but no knife or spatula. "Oh!" exclaimed Cal, looking around. He was about to summon the receptionist back when Anderson drew her bootknife and cut a generous wedge, lifting it onto the plate the Deputy Chief Judge was holding. Cal smiled – Anderson couldn't be sure if it was at her gauche impropriety, in admiration for practicality, or at Slocum's shocked and even scared reaction. He took a mouthful of the desert. "Mmmm," he murmured with feeling. "_Cake_."

Abruptly, he tossed the plate down, the fork clattering on the china. "Well, Judge Anderson?" he asked.

Anderson took a bite of cake herself – it was very good; fluffy and moist, the frosting queasily-greasy to her palate unused to real butter. She chewed carefully and swallowed before answering. "You're asking?" she said.

"Let's say I was."

"Then I'd ask 'why?', Sir," she said. "I've been on the streets for a year – my record is good. I think I'm an asset to the sector house. I think I can – I think I am – making a difference. I understand the sector 119 project wasn't perfect, but . . ."

"This isn't punitive, Judge Anderson," Call assured her. "Far from it – quite the opposite, actually. Your record, abilities and successes are well-known to my division."

Anderson felt the very slight extra weight one of those words was given. She sighed – it always came down to this. "Abilities," she said.

"You must admit," said Slocum on the other side of her, his mouth full of cake and chewing noisily, "you would be an asset to the SJS. Our investigations are often hampered by a lack of evidence, not to mention the fact many violations of regulations go unreported."

"I don't like to go digging in people's heads unless I have to," Anderson said silverly. "Thoughts are . . . _raw_. Also," she added, skewering him with an icy glare, "people have a right to privacy." Slocum actually laughed.

"Oh, my – that's adorable," he chuckled. "Right to privacy?" He glanced at his boss. "Really, Judge Cal? We are considering someone with such naïve notions for SJS? I question your competence, Judge Anderson, if you honestly believe the Justice Department recognizes a _right to privacy_."

Even in the heart of SJS power, Anderson didn't feel in danger – she had plenty of good cards left to play, and Cal's judicious, introspective silence reassured her. "If it is not illegal and does not pertain to a criminal investigation or matter, there is a presumption of privacy," she articulated crisply as if lecturing at the Academy. "And we can't make _thoughts_ illegal – we'd have to lock up half the citizenry and most of the Department."

"I think you exaggerate, Judge Anderson," Slocum scoffed.

"Really?" she asked. "Should I go digging about in _your_ head, Judge Slocum?" She hadn't – and wouldn't; she had no desire to plunge into sweaty, seamy darkness for the second time that day – but he didn't know that. Besides, she could guess well enough; she pressed the image of Vanderbilt in costume-sexy riot armor and with a suggestive baton in her hands into the surface of his mind and smiled thinly as fire crackled through his psyche. "Thoughts cannot always be controlled, and only _actions_ are criminal. We're Judges, not confessors."

"I think Judge Anderson makes an excellent point, Slocum." Cal didn't exactly come to her rescue, but she was grateful. He turned to her with a conciliatory smile. "But I am certain you see the potential for your presence in SJS?" he asked. "The ability to extract information without harsh interrogation, truth serums and so forth – even without the suspects knowing information was extracted? That would a significant asset to SJS – and it _is_ what you have been doing on the streets."

Anderson nodded. "Yes, Sir," she admitted. "My lack of desire to join SJS is not hypocrisy about equal treatment before The Law – I take my oath very seriously, Sir, and I think the record will show that I have . . ." Cal nodded, waving the details away. "While SJS is vital in preserving the integrity of the Department, and no-one appreciates the danger posed by corrupt Judges more than I, I was given an Assessment against the Academy's recommendation specifically because the Chief Judge thought my abilities could make a difference on the streets."

"You're name-dropping, Judge Anderson?" Slocum asked scornfully. "Pulling rank on the _Deputy Chief Judge_?"

She spun to face him, her gasoline-fire eyes suddenly cold as Vanderbilt's. "Technically speaking, Judge Slocum," she snapped, "he's just asking – if I'm pulling rank on anyone, I'm pulling it on _you_." She didn't wait for a response, instead turning back to Cal – who was sitting, amused, lifting his hand to hide his smirk. "I can make a difference out there, Sir," she said earnestly. "I _am_ making a difference out there."

"Hmm." Cal shifted on the couch and reclined on his elbow. He plucked a morsel of cake from his plate and dropped it in his mouth, licking frosting luxuriously from his fingers. "I see. Well, Judge Anderson, I cannot say I am surprised – but neither can I say I am not disappointed. You would have been a great asset to SJS. I think we will go with the Chief Judge's recommendation."

"Sir!" exclaimed Slocum. "We can't just let the pysker slip through our fingers! We don't need her permission; you could persuade the Chief Judge – she's an _asset_ we need!"

Cal closed his eyes for a moment and then smiled seraphically at Anderson. He sighed. "Did you enjoy the cake?" he asked. He patted his belly. "I do so like cake – but I'm marching in too-many chair-parades to eat like that all the time. Being on the streets, you'll burn it off in a shift – please, take it home with you."

"Well, thank you, Sir," said Anderson politely, "but a whole cake is a little much . . ."

"For your fellow-Judges in the sector house, then," Cal said. "I am sure they would appreciate some cake after a long shift. Judge Slocum," he said crisply, "get a box for Judge Anderson's cake."

"Sir," Slocum protested, "you can't expect . . ."

"A _box_," said Cal through gritted teeth, gesturing with his hands to show the size and shape he desired, "for Judge Anderson's _cake_."

Very stiff-backed and with his face a carefully-composed mask, Slocum stood up and clicked his heels together in attention. "Sir," he said, not acknowledging Anderson as he left the room. She didn't look up as he walked away, instead concentrating on squishing the leftover moist crumbs of cake into the tines of her fork so nothing was wasted. She drained her coffee, setting the cup carefully down on the saucer. She straightened her fork and stood to leave.

"I should be going, Sir," she said. "Thank you very much for your time – and the coffee and cake." She reached for her belt. "I think I can get the cake in an evidence bag, Sir – no need to bother Judge Slocum." Cal didn't move.

"Sit down, Judge Anderson," he ordered. She looked at him for a moment and then resumed her seat, sitting very upright and with her hands in her lap. She patiently waited for him to speak again.

He stood up, walking to his desk behind her and coming back into her field of vision holding a justice-blue folder secured with a holographic seal. He handed it to her and walked over to stare at the fishtank, his back to her. Almost warily, she swept her hand under the cover, breaking the seal, opened the folder and started to read. "When I said we'll go with the Chief Judge's recommendation," explained Cal softly, "I didn't mean the one she made a year ago – I mean the one she made last week. Take a moment – and maybe another slice of cake – and then we'll talk."

**A/n :** Yay, another chapter!

Observant readers will notice a nod to "The Day the Law Died" with Cal's fish!

The issue of uniform colors is one I have gradually developed; in earlier stories, it is possible there might be errors or omissions. In any case, the details of the uniform colors are found in chapter 2 of "Shakedown the Dream". In brief; Cadets wear pale blue (_cadet-blue_), Judges wear dark blue (_justice-blue_) and those with a Street-rating to engage, sentence and execute are permitted to wear black (_sentencing-black_). Cadets wear chrome metallics (with the exception of a shield that reads "CADET") and no shoulder eagle. Full Judges wear bronze metallics and the shoulder eagle. Most specialists (Tek, Medi etc.) do not have a Street rating and so may not wear black.

Much of Judge Slocum's personality is inspired by descriptions in the opening chapters of "Souls and Circuits" by Giraffe on the Moon. Slocum is a character from "The Day the Law Died" and appears in a couple of my other stories.

Look – you've reached the bottom of the page, and what is that below? Why it's a _review box_! Why not review – then I know what you liked and did not like; I am making this story up as it goes along, so there is every chance your suggestions will be worked into the narrative!


	5. His Brother's Keeper

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Chapter Five : His Brother's Keeper**

Judge Goodman's office was both smaller and less-luxurious than Cal's suite. Although equipped with vidpanel walls, the Chief Judge never used them to display the view, instead tuning to Control's main dispatch feed. The ninety-four percent red / six-percent blue split both humbled and inspired. Her desk was oversized and ornate, a slab of carved and gilded realwood supported at the corners by eagles of justice rampant, the expansive surface strewn with papers and dataslates. There was a golden eagle-shield on the justice-blue carpet in front of it with two comfortable chairs for visitors. It was a measure of in what capacity the Chief Judge was speaking whether she kept the desk between her and guests or not. Usually the diminutive dark-skinned woman was bent over the desk, seemingly small and insignificant behind it.

As he entered, Dredd found the Chief Judge leaning against desk's front, her hands on the edge and her legs stretched before her. It was a casual pose, one he did not care for and which suggested this was going to be an uncomfortable interview. He glanced the woman seated in one of the chairs; she was wearing the uniform of a penitentiary guard with SJS shoulder flashes. He suddenly suspected why he was here. "The Chief Judge wished to see me." It was not a question. "Warden Vanderbilt," he said politely.

The woman blinked her ash-gray eyes in surprise. "Judge Dredd," she countered.

The Chief Judge glanced from one to the other in puzzlement. "You two know each other?" she asked. Vanderbilt shook her head.

"No," she explained, "but _he's_ wearing a badge. Does my reputation proceed me, Judge Dredd? Yours does, I will admit," she offered with a smile.

"Pen guard uniform, warden collar brass, SJS auxiliary bronze," Dredd said shortly. "Couldn't be anyone except my brother's keeper. This is about him, Ma'am," he said to the Chief Judge. Again, it was not a question. She nodded.

"The warden is leaving Aspen," she said. "She will be taking over sector 27 Isoblock."

Dredd looked at Vanderbilt with faint curiosity. "That's a step down," he said. She shrugged.

"I think I've made any point I need to make," she said easily. "And, besides, what use is a big salary without anything to spend it on? I'm sick and tired of looking at gray walls and rad-storms."

Dredd nodded. "And I'm meeting with you because . . . ?" he asked. The tall woman didn't immediately answer and Dredd turned to the Chief Judge. "I'm guessing this meeting isn't just to remind me my brother's release date was two days ago, Ma'am," he said. "What happened?"

Goodman looked surprised. "I didn't think you were . . ." Dredd's face didn't shift and she sighed. "Never mind," she said. "Yes, Rico's twenty was up on Wednesday. As you know, Judicial-traitors who have served their sentence are exiled permanently from all of the North American mega-cities and any extra-urban territories. Rico had initially requested discharge to Ciudad Barranquilla . . ."

"I vetoed that personally, Judge Dredd," Vanderbilt assured him.

"Man's served his time, hasn't he?" asked Dredd. The warden looked puzzled. "If we don't want trip-sixes going someplace, we should pass a law saying so," he explained.

Vanderbilt gave a patient smile. "You know, as well as I do, that placing Rico in a corrupt jurisdiction like Ciudad Barranquilla would be asking for trouble," she said.

"Sure I do," rumbled Dredd, "but I also know it wouldn't be illegal."

Vanderbilt's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "These men are _convicts_," she reminded Dredd frostily, "I am not required to allow anything merely because it is not illegal. My objective is control and prevention of recidivism. If that means I have to go further than the law, then so be it."

Dredd considered – it was clear he didn't like the notion, but couldn't find anything except pure legalism to argue against it. He knew Vanderbilt – any non-Judge, really, and maybe even some members of the thin black-and-bronze line – wouldn't understand the necessity for iron-clad adherence to the letter of The Law before you could hope to uphold its spirit. "Where'd he end up going?" he asked.

"His second choice was Mex-Cit," Vanderbilt said. "I spoke with the Judiciary there – they expressed no objections and I approved the request. A long-range H-wagon was arranged to transport him to the Santa Fe railhead – from there, he would be taken south to Mex-Cit's boundary where the local Judiciary would assume custody. Throughout the journey, he was to be guarded and secured."

"What went wrong?" growled Dredd. The corner of his mouth twitched as the two women exchanged worried glances. "I wouldn't be here if he were flipping tacos and shaking margaritas in Guadalajara," he said reasonably. "What did he do? Let me guess – gave _los Jueces_ the slip and bailed to Banana City?"

Vanderbilt glanced at the Chief Judge who gave a very slight nod. She turned back to Dredd. "The H-wagon never made it to Santa Fe," she said grimly. "It departed Aspen just after oh-eight-hundred – the prisoner, two guards, pilot and first-officer. Approximately twenty-three minutes later, roughly fifty-seven miles out, we lost radio and radar contact."

The Chief Judge watched Dredd carefully for a reaction – _any_ reaction. But other than the curiosity of a Judge gathering information about a case, there was nothing. "What happened?" he asked.

"We don't know," said Vanderbilt. "Downward pointing satellite imaging revealed wreckage scattered over a wide area, consistent with a fuel-tank explosion. That's inhospitable terrain; we weren't able to get anyone on the ground before a rad-storm swept in. Any evidence from the crash is destroyed now."

"Survivors?" asked Dredd tonelessly.

Vanderbilt looked at him as if he were mad. "Have you ever been caught in a Rocky Mountain rad-storm, Judge?" she asked. "It'll scour plasteen to dust inside of five minutes – if anyone survived the explosion and crash, they were dead by the time the storm'd passed through."

"H-wagon didn't carry survival gear?" asked Dredd. "Normally they come equipped with enviro-suits."

"Even those won't last long against a full-fledged storm," said Vanderbilt. "And the crew didn't have time to get into them; the last voice contact was nine minutes prior to the crash – entirely routine, an all-clear. If they'd had any warning about the explosion, they'd have reported it. And without a warning . . ." She let her voice trail off.

Dredd nodded. "They were caught by surprise," he agreed. "Sabotage?"

"No evidence for it," said Vanderbilt. "Unless you know something I don't," she added with a winning smile. "My successor's heading up the investigation, and I've been out of the loop since yesterday. So, maybe I don't know – but, last I saw, there wasn't anything to suggest sabotage."

"Nothing new suggests that either," said the Chief Judge. "The investigation is classified, of course," she told Dredd, "but I'll make sure you're given access to anything it turns up." Dredd shook his head.

"No need, Ma'am," he said shortly. "Thank you, though," he added.

Vanderbilt glanced at the Chief Judge, but her face was unreadable. "Those H-wagons don't see a lot of use," she explained, "and Aspen's airspace is brutal on them. Even if there isn't a rad-storm proper, wind-blown sand is dangerous. If some mechanic skimped his job or just missed something . . ." She shrugged. "I'm sorry, Judge."

Dredd cocked his head quizzically. "For what?" he asked.

Vanderbilt blinked, her beautiful face emotionless with surprise. "For your brother's death, Judge," she said softly. Dredd gave a noncommittal grunt. The muscles of her fine jaw bunched. "I lost four good men in the crash," she added.

"That I am sorry about," Dredd assured her. He stood up. "Are we done, Ma'am?" he asked. "Just finished my patrol, like to catch some Z's if I could. Anderson and I were hitting Los Santos this evening."

The Chief Judge looked at him carefully. "I'd like you to stay if you could," she said. "And don't worry about Los Santos," she added. "I've appraised your chief; he'll put someone else on the raid."

"Ma'am?" asked Dredd.

"That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about," the Chief Judge said softly. "Anderson's being moved to another assignment – classified, even for you," she added. "You'll be receiving a new partner."

Abruptly, Vanderbilt stood. "I should be going, Chief Judge," she said brightly. Goodman nodded politely. "A pleasure, Judge Dredd," Vanderbilt said. "Once again, I'm . . ."

"Thanks for bringing me up to speed, Warden," Dredd rumbled. "Good luck in sector 27."

For a second Vanderbilt just gazed at Dredd, her cold eyes deep and distant. And then she blinked a couple of times and shrugged, nodding goodbye to the Chief Judge and showing herself out. The Chief Judge gestured Dredd into a chair. "Where would you like me to sit?" she asked.

"You want to call me Joe, or Dredd?" he countered.

She sighed and leaned against the front of the desk. "I know you and Rico were close," she began.

"That was twenty years and a trip-six trial ago," he said firmly.

She banged her fist on the surface of her desk in frustration – _drokk the man!_ "It was your whole _life!_" she snapped. "You were brothers, at the Academy together. You forget – I've seen the transcripts, read the psych profiles, studied the reports." She lifted a stack of folders from the desk and waved them in his face – they were stuffed with papers, dusty and yellowing with age, what they contained so classified it wasn't trusted to the databases. "I know what he meant to you, how he helped you, what you did together. You loved him, Joe," she said seriously.

"Still do," he admitted without embarrassment. "Doesn't change a thing."

Goodman sighed. "Joe . . ." she began.

"Permission to speak freely, Ma'am?" he asked.

She just stared blankly at him for a second. "Granted . . . _Joe_," she said meaningfully.

"I understand what you're trying to do, Ma'am," he said. "And I appreciate it – I do. Rico and I were brothers, best friends – saved each other's life I don't know how many times. He was a good Judge, got me through the Academy. He was my hero and I don't mind admitting it. The city – heck, the _country_ – owes him a debt of gratitude for his service just after the Atomic War. If it weren't for him . . ." Dredd's voice trailed off. "Well, you were there, Ma'am," he reminded himself brusquely. She nodded.

"I was," she agreed. "The Rose Garden." Her hand reached for her side, her expression thoughtful. She looked at him sympathetically. "But?" she asked.

"But he broke The Law," said Dredd. "Whatever he might have been, and whatever my feelings might be, that makes him a criminal. I arrested him, the Council judged him, sentenced him to twenty years in Aspen. Now, he's served his time . . ."

"And now he's dead," said the Chief Judge gently. "If you need . . ."

"What I need, Ma'am," said Dredd firmly, "is for you to sit behind your desk, and tell me why you're breaking up the best team in sector 13."

For a second, Goodman just stared at him. And then she nodded, accepting he was who he was and that he would grieve – if he grieved at all – in his own way and in his own time. She pushed herself up from where she was sitting on the front edge of her desk and walked around to sit behind it. "It is not punitive, nor a negative assessment of your performance as her mentor and senior partner," she assured him. "Your records – individually and collectively – are impressive and you will end your partnership with the highest commendation. Judge Anderson is being moved to another assignment; again, it is not punitive. In fact, although the assignment is highly classified, I will tell you it is quite the opposite."

Dredd nodded. "I'm going to guess I shouldn't speculate about the nature of her assignment?" he asked. The Chief Judge smiled thinly.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't," she said.

The perma-frown twitched once more. "Heh," he grunted. "Guess I'll get to eat something other than noodles." The Chief Judge looked puzzled, but didn't say a word. "Who's my new partner, Ma'am?"

The Chief Judge selected a file from those strewn on her desk. "Barbara Hershey," she said. "You know her?"

"No."

"Well, she's in there." Dredd took the justice-blue file, held it in both hands, didn't open it. "Two years on the street, sector 41. Just made Senior Judge."

"Rising fast." Dredd's voice was perfectly neutral, devoid of even the suggestion of opinion or insinuation.

The Chief Judge nodded. "I want to transfer her to sector 2, get her some experience in the CapZone."

"You grooming her for a desk job?" growled Dredd. He'd opened the file, flipped to the back and was racing through her arrest records. "Seems a waste . . ."

"What I'm doing or not doing isn't your concern, Dredd," the Chief Judge reminded him sharply.

Dredd stopped reading and very deliberately closed the file. "Am I mentoring her, or assessing her, Ma'am?" he asked.

"Maybe a bit of both," the Chief Judge admitted. "Tell me what she's good at, what she's not good at. Put the polish on her, show her how the best of the Department does the job; I want her to see that."

Dredd nodded. "Yes, Ma'am," he said evenly. "When do I start, Ma'am? My next shift begins at twenty-one-thirty . . ." The Chief Judge shook her head.

"You're off-duty until tomorrow, oh-nine-hundred," she said crisply. "Judge Hershey will meet you at sector house 13." Dredd nodded and stood – even after all her years of knowing him, of serving with him for all of his career and most of hers, his bloodless stoicism was still disquieting. "I'm sorry, Joe," she said.

"About what?" asked Dredd. He seemed genuinely puzzled. "You just gave me the night off; thank you, Ma'am."

Goodman suddenly realized she had no idea what Joe Dredd did for recreation – if, indeed, he did anything at all. She'd never seen his apartment, and tried not to imagine a cheerless, featureless gray box with utilitarian furniture and a kitchen that consisted of nothing but a microwave and a freezer filled with sack-snacks. She considered asking him what he was going to do, but thought better of it. "You're welcome," she said. "Dismissed."

**A / n :** Another chapter! Huzzah!

I have used the name "Goodman" for the Chief Judge; that seems to be the fanon-accepted name. It is the name of the first Chief Judge who appears in the comics (from 2099 to 2100). He is nothing like the Chief Judge from the movie (who this is imagined to be) and the history I imply here (that she was part of the post Atomic War assault on the White House – the "Rose Garden" incident – with Joe & Rico Dredd) means her history must be very different form the comics.

"Trip-six" is a reference to something I came up with for 'Gunpowder & Lead"; "code triple-six" for a rogue / renegade Judge. It is based on the Biblical sign of the beast.

Hershey is a comic character, but is also mentioned in on-screen text in the movie. A version of the character also appears in the Stallone movie.

Some of this history of the Judges is implied here – much of it matches with the comics, but some doesn't. Backstory isn't important to understand the narrative.

Mex-Cit and Ciudad Barranquilla are part of the comics; as implied here, Ciudad Barranquilla is famous for corruption.

Now – a favor from you all, if I might! Obviously, this story is based on "The Return of Rico" and the other comics which discuss that history. But, I realize that a lot of people here aren't super-familiar with the comics – maybe they have only seen the movie, or just read a few comics, or picked bits of detail up. It is difficult for me to know if this story makes sense on its own – readers familiar with the comics will be able to follow it because they can "fill in" the backstory and I find myself doing that, too. But I want to know (from people who are not familiar with the comics); does this work and make sense?

Even if you are familiar with the comics, can people tell me – the review box is right there! - if this story makes sense based JUST on the information given here in the story itself? That is; can we tell who Rico is, what is relationship with Joe Dredd is? (Yes, I _know_ there is a major plot-point which hasn't been explicitly revealed in this story yet – that is deliberate!) Or do readers find themselves saying "This doesn't make sense" or "This only makes sense because I have read the comics"?

Please – I'd love to know, and I'd also love to hear anything else you might have to say. Just review the story and tell me what you think.


	6. Out With The Old

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Chapter Six : Out With The Old . . . **

Cal smiled at the gaudy, iridescent flashes of multicolored scales weaving their way dumbly through the plants and rocks and itty-bitty castle. "Do you like fish, Judge Anderson?" he asked.

"Don't often get to eat it, Sir," she said dryly, "not on my salary. Dredd and I took down a juvie gang vandalizing a church a couple of weeks ago. It was a Friday, they had a fish-fry. Priest was kind enough to give us some wrapped in a screamsheet. Chips, salt and vinegar, and some green mush. Think it was vat-grown, but it tasted good."

The Deputy Chief Judge turned to face her, smiling thinly. "Really, Judge Anderson?" he asked.

"The joke? Nervous habit, I'm afraid," she said with neither apology nor smile. "Or do you mean me telling the head of IA my partner and I accepted inducement from a leader of an organization officially designated 'potentially subversive' by the Department?"

Cal's smile deepened – he couldn't help but admire her moxie, her confidence, her excellent political antennae and skills at manipulation. It was a shrewd move by the Chief Judge to have chosen her, and he made a very quick calculation if more was to be gained by aiding or breaking her. "It'll take more than _that_ to get you out of this assignment," was all he said.

"I could go trip-six," she offered mockingly. Her hand hovered level with but a clear foot away from her hip and lawgiver. Cal laughed.

"I'd prefer you didn't, Judge Anderson – getting mud out of the cushions is one thing; blood out of the carpet, however . . ." He switched his incongruous playfulness off. "What do you think?" he asked, gesturing at the folder.

Anderson stood and walked to the 'windows', standing with her nose inches from the glass. Even at this distance, the effect was flawless – she wondered how it was done, how the view shifted stereoscopically as she moved closer and turned her head, how things blurred to her vision as she shifted her focus to nearer or farther objects. She looked down at the folder in her hands. "I think I should have seen this coming," she said, a little bitterly.

"I wasn't aware you were precognitive," Cal remarked. "There is a Cadet, detailed in appendix A, . . ."

Anderson slammed the folder shut and spun to face him; he'd out-joked her, pushing past her breaking point. "Do I get her, Sir?" she snapped. "You want me to head up a mind-crimes squad; but it's clandestine, need-to-know, off-the-books, my only resources will be auxiliaries or leveraged Judges? Chief Judge isn't presenting this to me – _you_ are, after you and your boy with the sticky mind undressing me with his eyes tried to get me for IA. What is that?" she asked. "_Cover?_ If this goes south and you need to burn me, she can clean her hands with plausible deniability and you can go to apologetically to the Council and say you _so wanted_ to have the crazy mutie reined and muzzled with SJS, but you made a mistake?"

Cal just looked at her for a second – a second during which she held herself at quivering attention and wondered if she hadn't gone too far. "I would _never_ call you 'mutie', Judge Anderson," Cal said softly but with dreadful control. "And I will make anyone who _does_ wish he'd drawn a one-way to Aspen. But other than that?" He gave a wintry smile. "You're absolutely right."

The candor hit her like a widowmaker round in the gut. "Sir?" she asked.

"Your . . . _abilities_ were always classified," Cal explained, "but speculation about them – and suspicion of _you_ – has spread via the powdervine. The Chief Judge has enemies – as do we all; but hers become enemies of the city and justice itself if they weaken her or call her judgment into question. The Chief Judge believes in you – as do I; appointments to the Special Judicial Service are not offered as party favors, Judge Anderson . . ."

"I realize that, Sir – thank you for the vote of confidence, Sir, but . . ."

"I was speaking, Judge Anderson," Cal said pleasantly, "kindly shut the drokk up until I'm done. We have the utmost confidence in your abilities – and I mean that in the broadest sense possible – to engage and sentence, to administer and recruit from psychic divergences in the city and perhaps beyond."

"_Divergences_," repeated Anderson softly. "Thank you, Sir."

"Like I said," Cal told her, "I would never call you mutie. This is not a straightforward assignment, I understand that, and I realize the limitations we have placed on you to protect the Department do not make it easier. Beyond the obvious difficulties of adjudicating what you perhaps accurately call 'mind-crimes' without a clear framework, there are political considerations. But, to repeat, the Chief Judge and I have confidence in you. This is a first; neither Mega City Two nor Texas City – in fact, no-one we are aware of – has established any kind of psychic Judicial force."

"Can't imagine the Sovs haven't," Anderson mused. "There were reports during SoAz . . ."

"Quite," agreed Cal. "Can you imagine the danger to the city, to our way of life, if they have that advantage and we do not? The Department cannot afford to let the opportunity you represent – not only the most powerful psi we have encountered, but also a highly-skilled and -decorated Judge with an excellent record and phenomenal command potential – to either pass us by or be jeopardized by scuttlebutt within the Department. Your squad needs clandestine anonymity for its own protection as well as that of the city – once it has stabilized, grown and proven itself I am certain it will be an asset which cannot be lightly dismissed."

Anderson nodded slowly, mollified not only by Cal's praise and the flattering warmth of being included on heavy-bronze politics for the first time, but also the fact she couldn't psynse even a hint of deception from him. "Thank you, Sir," she said.

"So, do you accept the new assignment?" asked Cal.

Her eyebrows went scrambling up in surprise. "I have a choice?" she asked.

"About whether to obey orders?" Cal asked. "Absolutely not. About whether or not you _accept_ the assignment? Of course you do." He fixed her with a gimlet gaze. "Well?" he asked.

She gave the impression of considering – the actual choice had been made months or years before, of course; ambition was burned out of Judges at the Academy, but it was replaced with a solid faith in the decisions of those above you. If you were offered bronze, no matter how ludicrously heavy it might seem, you stepped up and took a swing because you knew those offering it knew you could knock it out the park even if you didn't believe you could. _Anderson, Psi Division_ she thought to herself. It had a nice ring to it.

"I'm your huckleberry," she said.

Cal beamed. "Excellent, Judge Anderson, _excellent!_" he exclaimed. "Congratulations. I shall have the paperwork filed immediately. If you could move to your new facilities tomorrow morning . . . ?"

She nodded. "I'll clean out my locker this evening, say goodbye to the guys at the Sector House," she said. "That is, if that's okay? I won't disclose any details of my assignment, but if I don't . . ." Cal nodded, understanding.

"Quite so, Judge Anderson, quite so," he agreed. "Good thought." He stepped towards the table and lifted the plate, offering it to her. "Don't forget your cake – I'm sure that will sweeten the bitter departure for them."

oOo

Vanderbilt left the Hall of Justice and walked briskly across the plaza, heading towards the sector 3 transit terminal. It was busy with the mid-afternoon rush, but her height and bearing let her move easily though the crowds. She ducked into the bathroom, entering a stall and quickly stripping out of her immaculate uniform. Underneath she was wearing a skin-tight pair of black elastane leggings and a form-fitting white T-shirt. She folded the gray tunic and pants into a neat pile and exited the restroom, walking briskly towards the automated MCPS store. Out of uniform now, nothing of her figure left to the imagination and no mystery about what she was wearing under the figure-hugging clothes – very little, as it happened – she turned more than a few heads. She pretended to neither notice or enjoy the attention she got from the commuters; jealousy from the women, admiration and lust from the men.

She bought a flat-rate box from the automat and ignored the robot's pre-programmed conversational gambits. She put her uniform in the box, sealed it and addressed it to her new office in sector 27. From other automats she bought a couple of sports drinks, some candy and a self-heating sack-snack, and then took the underground to the Morgantown Railhead.

The subterranean magrail consisted of fully-automated hermetically-sealed cars levitated within and pushed through dedicated airless tunnels by magnetic constriction. Nothing short of a major disaster or terrorist attack delayed the timetable, and although it only ran between a few major transport hubs it was the fastest way to get around Mega City One; the cars never dropped below 250mph and on the longer straight runs exceeded 300. It was barely forty minutes later that the train eased to a smooth halt and Vanderbilt walked across the platform and took the escalator to ground level.

The Morgantown Railhead was about fifty miles due south of the Pittsburgh Gate. It was here that the transcontinental railroads came through the boundary wall, bringing bulky goods from Mega City Two, Texas City or even farms and mines in the Cursed Earth. Most of the trains were fully-automated, crewed by dedicated robots with quasi-independent processors slaved to a central computer in the caboose. They came through the wall via a heavily-armored gate into a unloading dock and cargo staging area – also, as was common, staffed by simple-minded robotic forklifts. This and other commercial infrastructure was separated from the rest of the terminal, a major transportation hub for the citizens, by fences and patrolling security guards.

Vanderbilt checked the time and hurried through the terminal, sticking to the shadows as she moved towards the commercial area. A few minutes reconnoitering found a place where the razor-wire was missing from the top of the chain-link fence. Glancing either way to make sure she was not observed, she jumped and grabbed the top of the fence, scrambling over to land crouching on the other side. A second after she hit a challenge rang out, "Hey!"

Her reaction was automatic – she snatched up a handful of gravel and leaped to her feet, sprinting towards the guard. He grabbed went for his collar radio and started to draw his flashlight-baton, but she was used to fighting Judges and he was just far too slow. He yelped and clutched at his face as the gravel hit him in the eyes. Running full-tilt, her knee hit him in the stomach and doubled him over, her elbow crushing the back of his neck. She grabbed him by the hair and hauled him upright, snatching the heavy flashlight from his belt. She threw him against a shipping container and smashed him across the clavicles with the barrel of the torch. He gave a choking scream and slumped down.

Dispassionately, not even particularly out of breath, she stood silently, every sense on alert for alarms or running feet. She could hear nothing except the soft hubbub of the railhead and the wheezing gasps coming from the guard's crushed windpipe. Tiring of the noise she flipped the flashlight in her hand, jerked the cap from his head, and stoved in his temple with a single, judicious blow.

She tucked the flashlight under her arm and set the cap on her head, dragging him into a narrow gap between two shipping containers. He wasn't small or short by any means, but she handled his corpse easily and without any revulsion. She efficiently stripped him of his uniform coveralls, pulling them on herself. They were mass-produced, barely tailored and utilitarian. Even so, she could make them look good – she cinched the belt tight around her waist and tucked the hems of the pants into her boots. She was buttoning the chest when a wicked thought took her; she stripped out of the jacket and let it hang around her waist as she peeled off her T-shirt. She was naked beneath it, her enhanced breasts needed no more support than the tight undergarment provided. She slipped her arms back into the coverall, leaving it unbuttoned to her navel so she had the ultimate cleavage.

She did want Rico to be happy to see her, after all.

She peered out from between the shipping containers, making sure she wasn't being watched. Satisfied, she walked briskly towards the unloading dock. She arrived with a few minutes to spare; the train wasn't here yet and the platform was deserted except for a few dumb robots and a single guard sitting bored in a booth. No matter how disinterested he looked, there was no way he would miss the alarms when she walked onto the track – he'd have to be dealt with.

She walked boldly up to the booth, her hand ready to draw the flashlight at a moment's notice. The guard looked up as she approached, his eyebrows going scrambling up in surprise. "Whaa . . . ?" he began. His eyes seemed glued to her breasts – even if she were going to leave him alive, there was no way he could have given a description of her face. He chuckled and nodded. "I get it," he said. "Kurt put you up to this, right? Revenge for that grinder dressed as a Judge I got for his stag night?" He glanced at his watch. "Alright," he said, "but you've got to be quick – train's coming in in three minutes." He reached out and grabbed her lapel so she was pulled towards him, one of her fine breasts spilling out. "Woah . . ." he murmured, his eyes greedy as his other hand reached out almost of its own volition to cup the firm mound.

His fingers never made it – her fist crashed into his groin with the force of a jackhammer. Before the pain reached his vocal cords, the heel of her other hand had come up under his chin and her thumb-and-forefinger were squeezing his nose, pinning his airways shut and the scream inside his throat. She grabbed his shoulder and twisted with surgical precision. His neck snapped with a grisly crunch of gristle.

She let go of his corpse, slipping herself inside her clothes once more and wiping her hands on her thighs. Craning her neck she could see the headlamps of the engine coming down the track. She carefully arranged the body so it looked like he was sleeping in the booth and turned her attention to the control board. It wasn't hard to decipher – it was designed to be operated by minimum-wage doofuses only one step up from losing their jobs to robots. The train came into sight and eased to a stop a few feet from the buffers. It was bulky and blocky, high and square sided, the paintwork scratched here and there but bright and gleaming; water ran off the sides and pooled on the ground beneath the track, streaming onto the platform – as it entered the city, it had run through a decontamination shower to sluice off the rad-dust. The board lit up – all she had to do was confirm each detail as it appeared, giving the robots authorization to start unloading the cargo. She hit each control in turn, switching all of them to green, and then muted the alarms and confirmed that she was sure when asked.

She hurried out of the booth, weaving between the bustling forklifts and dropping off the platform onto the track. The robots ignored her, mono-mindedly concentrating on their tasks. She ran down the train, ducking to look under each car. Under the third one from the front she found what she was looking for – a man in a bulky enviro-suit clinging to the underside between the bogies. "Rico!" she called. "Rico, baby! It's me!"

The man didn't move – the noise under the train as it rattled over the tracks through the Cursed Earth must have been deafening, and the over fifty-hour ride without food or water numbing. She crouched and waddled under the carriage, reaching out to touch him. The armorweave outer skin of the suit was gritty and scoured, the thick layers meaning he wouldn't feel her touch. She shook him by the shoulder. "Rico!" she exclaimed.

The figure's head turned toward her slowly – he couldn't see; there was a thick hood drawn over the fragile visor of the helmet, the front edge fastened to the chest of the suit. His arms and legs trembled as he unhooked them from where they had been locked around stanchions and supports for over two days. She hastened forward and caught him as he fell, cushioning his impact with her own body. "Rico, baby!" she sobbed, fumbling for the latches and zippers of the suit. "It's okay, baby – your honey's here!"

She tore the hood back – the visor was streaked with dust, scratched to opacity even under the protective cloth. She tugged at the helmet until it came off; her lover stared back at her, his thin, pale and drawn face a dead-eyed mask of weariness. His lips were puffed and cracked with dehydration, and a disgusting stench of recirculated air and two-days of bodily waste wafted up to hit her in the nose. None of that mattered – she flung herself at him and embraced him furiously. "You did it, baby!" she gasped between kisses. "You did it!"

He didn't respond, lying limp in her arms, his lips only wet with her kisses. "Water . . ." he gasped.

She nodded, pleased with her forethought, and set him gently on the ground. "Here, baby," she said, lifting his head so he could sip the electrolyte-rich liquid. "Drink it slowly, don't gulp. Got some candy, too – your favorite. And a thick, juicy munceburger with _real_ facon."

Rico sipped carefully; he felt the drink glug through his body, almost fancying he could feel the moisture soaking through every fiber of his dedicated body, restoring life to a long-dead desert. He wasn't much given to metaphor or imagination – Judicial training and the rigors of prison life had made him direct and to the point – but there was something appropriate about it. He smiled as he thought about it; he, Rico Dredd, left for dead, left to rot in the grave of Aspen, coming back to Mega City One. This was more than his return – this was his resurrection.

He took a large gulp of the enriched water and set the bottle aside, sitting up and grabbing a piece of candy from Vanderbilt's offered hand. It was one of the gooey mint patties he preferred – they had been rare in Aspen, not often available to buy in the shop even for trustees and commanding high prices on the prison black market, and it had been years since he'd had one. He stuffed it greedily into his mouth, barely tasting it, enjoying the luxurious jolt of sweet energy.

Vanderbilt smiled at his look of childlike-joy as he chewed messily, a small cleft of worry appearing on her forehead when she saw a cloud pass over his face. She picked up the sack-snack and tore the plastic strip away, ripping the bag open. As the inner surface of the vacuum-sealed bag came into contact with the air, it began to steam and smoke, heating the meal inside.

It was the thick, juicy scent of hot, greasy munceburger that brought Rico from his memories – memories of him and his brother when they were junior Cadets, saving their meager weekly allowance to buy these peppermint candies from the commissary; memories of he, Rico, sharing his stash with him, Joe, after an error in class got his candy confiscated. He shook himself and started, licking his lips as his mouth watered, reaching out to grab the burger, hot grease burning his fingers as took a massive mouthful and chewed noisily.

He ate messily, stuffing his face and not worrying about bits of half-chewed food that dropped from his mouth. As he ate, Vanderbilt prattled excitedly. "You did it, baby!" she exclaimed. "Everything went okay? You killed the guards and got into the enviro-suit and used the grav-shute to get out of there before the firebug went off? You weren't hurt when you landed? I can find a doctor if you were . . . it wasn't too far to Butte Junction, was it? You must be exhausted. Oh, Rico!" she sighed. "I'm so happy you made it, baby!"

He gulped and stuffed the last of the burger into his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He took another glug from the bottle. "Yeah, honey," he said distractedly, "me too. Bring me up to speed – where are you with the rest of the plan?"

If Vanderbilt was offended by him dismissing her care, she didn't show it. "I was very clever, baby," she explained eagerly, "you'll be proud of me. I've found out all sorts of stuff – your brother's getting a new partner, his old one's going to a new assignment. There's a gang called Los Santos – he was going to hit them tonight, but the Chief Judge has put someone else on that. I think the raid's still gonna happen."

Rico turned to her, his eyes flint. "You saw my brother?" he asked. Suddenly fearful, she gulped and nodded. "How's he look?"

"Good?" she ventured nervously. "I mean, he looks like you – not as handsome as you, and he doesn't care like you do, but . . . like you, baby. That was always the plan, right? You're pleased about that, aren't you?" she begged. He looked away and his lips twitched in anger. "I got us an in with the Justice Department," she said urgently. He turned to look at her, half-smiling. "The contact I'd made before? Who had beef with your brother? I persuaded him to give me level two access; that's the same as a Rookie gets. I should only have level one as an auxiliary – now I'm not running Aspen even that should be restricted. But with level two, we can get details on this gang, find out who their leaders are, use that as leverage." She smiled with coquettish triumph, set her shoulders back and shimmied them a little so her full breasts jiggled with heavy allure. "I guess he . . . _liked_ me," she explained lusciously.

Rico nodded slowly. "He didn't . . . ?" he asked, a dangerous edge to the question.

"Oh baby, no!" she exclaimed. "I'd _never_ . . . I'm just for you, baby. They can look, but they can't touch." She smiled again and batted her eyelashes at him, looking from under heavy lids. She lay her fingertip lightly on her collarbone and drew it slowly down her cleavage. "I dressed like this for you special . . ." she purred suggestively.

Mollified, Rico shrugged himself out of the battered enviro-suit. He was wearing a prisoner's florescent jumpsuit beneath it. The fact he'd survived, that he'd made it through the Cursed Earth back to Mega City One, invigorated him. The way the plan was falling into place perfectly encouraged him. And Vanderbilt's gorgeous body, so sluttily and wantonly displayed for him and him alone, fired him. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and jerked her roughly forward, mashing his lips against hers and kissing her brutally. Her arms encircled him eagerly as his other hand slid inside her coverall, his fingers encompassing the massive bounty of her breast, the pad of this thumb tweaking the puckered hardness of her nipple. "And I like it, honey," he grunted hot and wet in her ear, his lips roving over her neck as she flung her head back and groaned in pleasure. "Let's find some no-tell-motel that rents rooms by the hour and make the walls shake, and then go see if we can't get ourselves a gang."

oOo

Dredd didn't bother turning on the light when he entered his apartment that evening – he knew the layout perfectly and the streetlights filtering faintly through the windows provided enough illumination. He dropped his bag by the door and unfastened his belt, pulling out his lawgiver to toss it on the table together with the take-out pizza he'd bought. Deep dish, stuffed crust, hydroponic-grown veggies, mushrooms, and whitemeat chikin. He walked to the bathroom, peeling off his uniform as he did so, stepping into the shower and just standing there for five minutes while the water pounded his battered body, sluicing off the sweat, dirt and blood, running over the bruises and scars.

His arms hung heavy at his sides, the weight of his swollen knuckles pulling them down, his shoulders slumping. He bowed his head and leaned it against the cool tile, letting the water slam into the back of his neck and flow down his spine. Only when the heat got uncomfortable did he straighten and reach for the soap.

He'd not taken the elevated express highways home from the CapZone, instead using surface streets to get to sector 13 and Yates hab-block. Inevitably, this had left him – even off-duty as he was – with no choice but to help out his fellow-Judges, engaging and sentencing in sectors not his own, burning hours of his evening when he could have been at the sector house or home. It had occupied his mind, leaving him without the luxury of brooding thought – but now, as he scrubbed, enjoying the feel of getting clean, of being out of the uniform, unencumbered by duty and armor, his thoughts turned to Rico. Showers for his brother couldn't have been like this, not for twenty years. Had he had to watch his back, eyes sliding furtively as he scrubbed quickly, wary of violence or worse? Had there _been_ water for washing high in the Rockies, in the center of the Cursed Earth rad-desert? Or had it been a luxury unavailable to prisoners? There certainly wouldn't have been take-out pizza, or noodles, or beer, or candy. He smiled as he remembered the gooey peppermints he and his brother had enjoyed when cadets. It had been a long time since he'd tried one – he wondered if they still tasted as good.

And now his brother was dead, killed in a freak accident. He'd meant what he said to Vanderbilt – that Rico had served his time, that he had a right to go where The Law allowed, unhindered unless he offended again. It was ironic, like a Judge being cut down a week before he put on a Tutor's uniform; Rico had died mere hours from freedom. Maybe it was better this way – could Rico have kept his nose clean, or would he have returned to crime? And what would he, Joe, have done if the Chief Judge had told him Rico was alive and well in Mex-Cit, sipping margaritas and flirting with the _chicas_ in some dingy bar? Would he have found an excuse to go there, suited-and-booted in the black-and-bronze, convincing himself but not Rico his interest was professional? Would he have had the guts to take some of his accumulated-but-never-used leave and gone there in mufti, sinking a cold Corona with his brother and seeing if something could be salvaged? How might either of those scenarios have ended?

He'd never know now. A man of supreme control, he merely clenched his fist and pressed it hard against the tile, muscles bunching. He slammed the water off and stepped out of the shower, roughly drying himself and wrapping the towel around his waist. He lived alone and had no plans to be anywhere else that evening. Moving on autopilot, he reached for the hypno/stim dispenser, programming the machine to mix the time-release capsule that would put him deep into REM sleep in minutes, keep him there for as long as possible and then wake him to crystal-clear clarity in time for his shift. And then he paused, calculating in his head. Oh-nine-hundred shift – that meant a seven-thirty alarm; ten and a half hours away. More than enough time to enjoy his pizza, watch some mindless dreck on TV, and still get a solid eight without drugs.

He found one beer in the fridge, hiding at the back next to a packet of slopdogs that had expired the year before – he couldn't even remember buying it. He popped the cap and slumped on his couch, opening the pizza and flicking the TV on. It was tuned to the news channel – he watched it while getting ready in the morning, reviewing the crime briefing via HUD as he drove in. He surfed through the channels as he munched the pizza and swigged the beer, eventually landing on a brain-dead action movie; a ridiculous plot where some pretty-boy martial artist played twin brothers, fighting himself through split-screen effects and unconvincing doubles. It wasn't a good movie, but it aired often – it was cheap for the station, and the unnecessary grind-bar scenes with their gratuitous nudity made it popular. Dredd had never watched it all the way through – he always flicked off it, the subject matter hitting a little to close to home even through the cornball dialog and sets. But now he left it on, relaxing on his couch and letting his mind wander.

He was tired from his shift, and the couch was comfortable and the beer surprisingly strong. He was asleep by the middle of the third act, and so he never saw how the final confrontation between the brothers played out. But neither did he need to – there was, after all, only one way those things ended in the movies.

oOo

"Are those tears, Judge?"

Anderson turned at Matheson's voice. Unashamedly, she wiped at her eyes. "Yes, boss," she said.

The Sector Chief nodded judiciously. "Guess that tells me, huh?" he remarked.

He and Anderson were alone in the squad-room, but the table was strewn with an untidy litter of synthi-caf cups, plastic forks and plates, and greasy napkins that had either been used for eating slopdogs or cleaning guns; perhaps both. The chief sighed at the mess; it was the unmistakeable sign of a hurried departure; his Judges had just rolled out on the Los Santos raid. Anderson was circling the table, throwing the trash into a plastic bag. "Leave it for the robots," he said.

Anderson shrugged. "Don't wanna leave it untidy, you know, boss?" she said, her voice tight and her eyes misty. She knotted the bag and stuffed it into the garbage, grabbing a cloth and bottle of cleaner from the side of the sink. She sprayed the tabletop, energetically wiping. Matheson stepped forward and caught her wrists.

"Leave it for the robots," he repeated. He could feel the tension in her arms for a second and then she nodded and relaxed. "The guys are pigs, I know," he said sympathetically.

"Yeah, well, Colt ain't much better," she snorted. "Hate to see her apartment."

"Pristine, apparently," he said. "She has a robot," he added meaningfully. She finally laughed. "Gonna miss you, Anderson," he said with feeling. "You're a good Judge, one of the best."

She chuckled. "You know I can read your mind, right?" she joked.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. "Do you?" he asked darkly. She shook her head.

"Don't need to," she said. "You put me in for a string of commendations as long as my arm – either you think I'm a good Judge or . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Or what?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Like I said," she grinned, "I didn't read your mind. If you _are_ crazy, you can take that to resyk."

Matheson smiled – he was definitely going to miss her; her insights, her irreverence, her compassion, the naïve determination she'd kept longer than green-helmets newer than her. He watched her as she walked over to her locker, opening it for the last time and stowing her things in a rucksack. Most of it was J-Dept equipment; gun cleaning kit, modified DMR scope that would fit a lawgiver, dopp kit, K-rations, pistol shoulder-rig – but she had a makeup compact, a can of hairspray with an elastic scrunchie holding a double-ended comb / brush combo to it, a bottle of synthetic-but-good sandalwood soap, and jeans, T-shirt and jacket that wouldn't get her thrown out of a club towards the back. She packed it all carefully away and zipped the rucksack closed. She reached in and pulled the last item out of her locker – a heavy riot shield; scuffed, battered, dented. She flung it on her back and pulled the carrying strap tight across her body.

There was only one thing left – she slid the nameplate out of the slot on the front and pocketed it. All of the claimed lockers had a Judge's name on them, with one exception; Dredd's label had been lost years before and his door was unmarked, veterans and green-helmets alike quickly learning which was his. Anderson reached for the rag and cleaner, intending to sweep her locker out, but Matheson's look stopped her. "For the robots," she said. "Got it, boss."

There was an unfolded box on the counter – Matheson lifted his chin to look at it. "You brought _cake_?" he asked, disbelieving. He knew how expensive such a thing could be. "Anderson, you didn't need to . . ." She shook her head.

"DCJ gave me it," she assured him. "Couldn't eat the whole thing myself, you know? Boss?" she asked carefully. "Judge Cal . . . is he . . . I dunno? Cake?"

"You'd rather he was more like Slocum, Anderson?" Matheson asked. She shook her head.

"Too-many guys are like Slocum – they just hide it better," she said knowingly. "Anyway – I've got Slocum's measure, and I don't mean like that. It just seemed a bit . . . weird?"

"Cal's a cagey bird," agreed Matheson. "Plays an odd game; he'll try to throw you off, get you to make a mistake, see what you're made of. But he's a good man," he assured her. She nodded slowly. "So," he said, "Cal gave you your new assignment, huh?"

She winced. "Probably shouldn't have told you that, boss," she said sheepishly. "Could you . . . try to forget that? It's a classified assignment – I wish I could tell you more, but . . ."

"Chief Judge already called me," he said. "Made it very clear it was above my paygrade. She asked me what I thought."

"What _do_ you think, boss?" she asked.

"You're the psi," he said.

He couldn't be sure if she 'read his mind' or whatever, but her eyes were glassy and inward-looking for a second and when she spoke she echoed his thoughts; "You don't have to like it." She sighed. "You've been a really good boss . . . _boss_," she said, gulping back fresh tears. "You've been understanding, and patient, and helpful, and . . ." Her voice choked a little.

"Is there any cake left?" he asked abruptly, turning towards the counter. Little remained except battered crumbs and smeared frosting; it had been hacked about, Judges taking pieces without respect to the unwritten rule you cut wedges. "For Grud's sake," he muttered, gathering the fragments together on a napkin. "Some people . . ." He turned back to face her, plucking at morsels. "Good cake," he said. "Everyone got some? You got a chance to say goodbye to everybody?"

"Except Dredd," she said, answering both questions. Matheson stopped with his hand halfway to his mouth, his lips hanging guiltily open, the expression so comic she couldn't help but laugh. Her shoulders shaking with mirth, she went to the fridge and took a plate from where she'd hidden it behind a stack of takeout containers. There was a wedge of cake – neatly-cut, generous, saved from the hordes – on it. She set it very deliberately on the table in the exact center. "He wasn't here," she said tonelessly.

"Yeah," said Matheson. "Chief Judge gave him the night off – you could go see him at home," he offered. "He wouldn't mind," he added

"I could, and he might, so I won't," she said. Matheson inwardly winced.

"Look, Anderson," he began, "about Dredd. He's . . . difficult; I know that. But just because he doesn't _show_ he cares doesn't mean he _doesn't_ . . ."

"I know." She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He gave a wan smile; it was something he'd always been subconsciously aware of, that no-one could have any secrets from Anderson if she didn't want them to (and, maybe, couldn't have any even if she wanted – he didn't really know how her abilities worked), but now its isolating quality struck him. Everyone else based their lives on the carefully-constructed lies and facades of human interaction, but Anderson saw through all of that; knew who hated her behind their politeness, who thought of her as 'mutie', 'witch' or worse. That would be bad enough, but only now did he realize someone hiding his care behind silence or flippant indifference might be harder to bear. "You can read his mind, right?" he asked.

Her gasoline-fire eyes held him transfixed for a second. "Do I?" she asked.

"You don't need to," he realized. She smiled as he understood. "I'm glad he had you," he said. "It was good for him, I think." Suddenly formal, he held out his hand to her. "Good luck, Anderson," he said. "If you need anything . . ."

She nodded. "Thanks, boss," she said. "Appreciate it – but . . ." She gave a lopsided grin and a little shrug. "Once I get settled, it's probably going to be the other way around," she said prophetically. She flung the rucksack onto her shoulder and pulled her notebook from her belt, scribbling a note and leaving it on the slice of cake. "If anyone else eats that . . ." she warned as she walked to the door.

Matheson watched her leave, the door swinging shut behind her, her empty locker yawning open, and sighed deeply. "Nosir," he said to the echoing room, "don't have to like it at all."

**A/n :** A rather longer chapter, but we are starting to move into the action now (and approaching the point where I have totally run out of even the vague _idea_ of a plot – so any suggestions gratefully received!)

There aren't many comic references in here – a lot of the stuff comes from my own fanon, and also from the work of other authors on this site. Specifically, there is a shout-out to Rhinne (and the excellent story "Shielded") with the riot shield, and to Giraffe On The Moon with the names of two of her sector-mates (taken from "Boundaries"). Neither of those stories is canonical for this, but I really like them and wanted to have a tip of the hat to these authors.

One comic reference is "Yates hab-block"; in the comics, the blocks are named after famous people (real or fictional) often in a satirical way. Dredd lives in "Rowdy Yates" Block (Rowdy Yates is the name of Clint Eastwood's character in "Rawhide", an old TV show – Clint Eastwood characters are inspiration for Dredd's no-nonsense policing style!) I liked the idea of the blocks named after famous people, but wanted it to be a little more subtle than the overt satire in the comics; so I just went with "Yates" block.

You've read this far – why not review? I see lots of hits but very few reviews – so I don't know if people are reading out of interest or morbid curiosity! And, as I said; I am not sure where this is going at all – not after the initial bit of plot I have devised. Suggestions might help inspired and fire me up!


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